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THE S. & K. DRAMATIC SERIES 

FOUR PLAYS OF THE FREE THEATRE. 

Authorized Translation by Barrett H. Clark. 
Preface by Brieux of the French Academy. 

"The Fossils," a play in four acts, by Francois 
de Curel. 

"The Serenade," a Bourgeois study in three 
acts, by Jean Jullien. 

"Francoise' Luck," a comedy in one act, by 
Georges de Porto- Riche. 

"The Dupe," a comedy in five acts, by Georges 
Ancey. Net $1.50. 

CONTEMPORARY FRENCH DRAMATISTS. 
By Barrett H. Clark. Net $1.50. 

THE ANTIGONE OF SOPHOCLES. 
Prof. Joseph Edward Harry. Net $1.00. 

EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS. 
A Literary and Critical Appraisal of Strindberg, 
Ibsen, Maeterlinck, Wilde, Shaw and Barker. By 
Archibald Henderson, M.A., Ph.D. Net $1.50. 
GEORGE BERNARD SHAW: HIS LIFE AND 
WORKS. 
By Archibald Henderson, M.A., Ph.D. Net 
$5.00. 

SHORT PLAYS. 
By Mary MacMillan. Net $1.25. 

THE GIFT— A POETIC DRAMA. 
By Margaret Douglas Rogers. Net $1.00. 

LUCEY PEHR. 
By August Strindberg. Authorized Translation 
by Velma Swanston Howard. Net $1.50. 
EASTER (A Play in Three Acts) AND STORIES. 
By August Strindberg. Authorized Translation 
by Velma Swanston Howard. Net $1.50. 
ON THE SEABOARD. 
By August Strindberg. The author's greatest 
psychological novel. Authorized Translation by 
Elizabeth Clarke Westergren. Net $1.25. 
THE HAMLET PROBLEM AND ITS SOLU- 
TION, 
By Emerson Venable. Net $1.00. 
HOW TO WRITE MOVING PICTURE PLAYS. 
By W. L. Gordon. Net $1.00. 

THE TRUTH ABOUT THE THEATER. 

Net $1.00. 
See page 425 for description of above Books. 

STEWART & KIDD COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, 
CINCINNATI, U. S. A. 



PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

LEAVES FROM A 
CRITICS SCRAPBOOK 



by 

WALTER PRICHARD EATON 

n 

author of 

The Idyl of Twin Fires," "The Bird House Man 1 

"The American Stage of Today," etc. 



Preface by 
BARRETT H. CLARK 



CINCINNATI 
STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 
1916 
cop\| Zi 






Copyright, 1916, by 

STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 
All rights reserved 

Copyright in England 



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DEC II 1316 



CLA453028 



K. 



TO 
A. E. THOMAS 



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PREFACE 

DRAMATIC CRITICISM IN AMERICA 

The question has often been asked in this country, 
Can there be absolutely free and untrammelled 
criticism of the drama in the daily newspaper 8 ? The 
recent case of the New York Times and the Shu- 
berts aroused a vast amount of discussion, some of 
which it may not be amiss to resuscitate with a view 
to arriving at a more or less definite conclusion as to 
the status of newspaper criticism. 

A year ago last March Alexander Woollcott, 
dramatic critic of the Times, reviewed "Taking 
Chances," a Shubert production; in his review, he 
spoke of its being "not vastly amusing," of its plot 
being "quite absurd," the second act "vulgar and 
tedious," and characterized the whole as a "bed- 
room farce." The review called forth a public 
statement from the Shubert office to the effect that 
"some of the critics, lacking in humor, may try to 
make you believe that somewhere there is something 
just a little bit off the line in Taking Chances.' " 
The managing editor of the Times was the recipi- 

vii 



viii PREFACE 

ent of the seats for the next Shubert production, but 
it was stipulated that Mr. Woollcott should not be 
permitted inside the theater. Mr. Van Anda, the 
managing editor, a man who, in the words of Samuel 
Hopkins Adams, "holds to the old-fashioned creed 
that a newspaper should be edited by the editors and 
not by the advertisers," returned the tickets forth- 
with. A short while after, Mr. Woollcott pur- 
chased seats at the Maxine Elliott Theater, was re- 
fused admittance, and at once brought suit against 
the management to establish his right to enter a 
theater after having bought tickets. And the Times 
therewith refused to take all Shubert advertisements, 
and for nearly a year to mention any Shubert play, 
actor or production. The deadlock remained, then, 
until the Shubert office, of its own accord, invited 
Mr. Woollcott to return to their theaters, and the 
Times, in turn, resumed its relations with them by 
accepting advertisements and press "stories." 

The whole case may at first appear very much in 
the same light as the cases of other critics of Wal- 
ter Prichard Eaton and the New York Sun, of 
Channing Pollock, of Percy Hammond; but there 
are two highly significant points to which attention 
must be directed. First, contrary to the usual cus- 
tom, it was not the Shuberts who withdrew their ad- 



PREFACE ix 

vertising from the Times, but the Times that re- 
fused to accept Shubert "copy"; and, finally, it was 
the Shubert office that came to the Times, after the 
courts had given the Shuberts the right to exclude 
Mr. Woollcott from their theaters, and invited Mr. 
Woollcott to return; and this in spite of Lee Shu- 
bert's statement that "During all this period that 
this man has been writing these things about our 
plays and of the plays that were produced at our 
theaters, the New York Times received on an average 
of from $600 to $700 a week for advertising the 
very plays which this man condemned. We paid 
the paper on an average of $35,000 a year." 

The law, many times tested, is clear: the man- 
agement of a theater can exclude whom it likes; it 
is a private concern, not a public institution. And 
yet, the Shuberts invited Mr. Woollcott to return to 
their houses. They lost no love for Mr. Woollcott : 
they needed the paper. 

Now, the New York Times happened to be able 
to afford to do without the $35,000 a year from the 
Shuberts; had it, however, like some New York 
newspapers, and most others, been unable to sustain 
the loss, it would have had to discharge Mr. Wooll- 
cott. In that event, the Times would have found it 
necessary to heed the credo of the Shubert office : 



x PREFACE 

"If it becomes known that any production that is 
made in one of our theaters is sure to be condemned 
by one of the leading papers in this city, that pro- 
ducer will not bring his production to our theater 
unless we exclude the dramatic critic of that news- 
paper from the attraction. I have been threatened 
that unless I get fair commented [!] criticism for 
a production made in my theaters, that the produc- 
tion will be taken elsewhere. ,, 

The simple method of the Times, employed with- 
out malice, with no threatenings, without blare of 
trumpets, has triumphed. It is not moral, it is not 
exactly pleasant to reflect upon, but it is efficacious ; 
it is the only possible weapon with which to combat 
the decidedly unethical weapons of such managers 
as declare that (referring to the Times critic) 
"The plaintiff, from the commencement of his em- 
ployment with the New York Times, has shown his 
bitter feeling and animosity against the defendants 
and has uniformly written scathing articles con- 
cerning the productions made by the defendants and 
each of them." 

There are perhaps half a dozen New York news- 
papers able to do what the Times did, and possibly 
a few more than that outside the metropolis. A 
great many of the weeklies and most of the monthlies 



PREFACE xi 

are likewise free to say what they please, but these 
last are valuable chiefly as leisurely comments, and 
not as critical estimates directly affecting audiences 
from day to day. 

The first important step has been taken: a rich 
newspaper can stand behind its critic, against the 
manager; but what of the paper that must depend on 
the revenue from each of its heavy advertisers? Ob- 
viously, and unfortunately, it must bow down to the 
dictates of those advertisers. 

The whole situation as I have reviewed it in the 
above-cited example, is considered solely from the 
point of view of business; the dignity and impor- 
tance of dramatic criticism as a part of the make-up 
of our daily newspaper I have not touched upon. 
Until criticism can be at least fairly free, it is use- 
less to prate of it as an art ; "criticism," dictated by 
the theater manager or the advertising manager, 
cannot rise even to the height of good reviewing. 
This is why we cannot afford to think of true dra- 
matic criticism before we make way for true dra- 
matic reviewing and reporting. So long as it is 
still possible for a manager to quote, "It is clean. 
We recommend it," for "It is clean. We have no 
hesitation in recommending it to the three little girls 
of 'Alice in Wonderland' who lived at the bottom of 



xii PREFACE 

the treacle well," just so long shall we remain where 
we are. 

And lest I be suspected of the vice of pessimism, 
let me hasten to state that there are in this country 
to-day a few dramatic critics endowed not only with 
first-rate powers of perception and wide knowledge 
and experience, but with true literary distinction. 
These critics, for the most part, have been forced to 
write for magazines and special issues of newspapers ; 
the remaining few could continue writing for the 
daily papers because they have been able to establish 
for themselves a real following of intelligent readers. 
It is to the critics of these two categories — and, for- 
tunately two or three belong to both — that we 
must look for a future in the art and practice of 
dramatic criticism. It is with the hope that the 
present collection of varied papers, documents of 
contemporary interest and specimens of true criti- 
cism, will arouse a more genuine interest in and love 
for this difficult and somewhat neglected art, that I 
have induced Mr. Eaton to allow me to re-print 
these essays. 

Barrett H. Clark. 



Almost all of the reviews and essays in this 
volume have previously been printed in newspapers 
or magazines, the majority of them being part of a 
weekly record of the New York stage, contributed 
during the past six years to the daily press. They 
are reprinted here without change or addition ; even 
the occasional prophecies have been left, if only to 
show the danger of donning Cassandra's robe. 
There is no pleasure for the critic in trying to doctor 
an old review, and no profit for the reader; he is 
almost sure thus to deprive it of its only value — that 
of an immediate and fresh impression. The writer's 
thanks are extended to the editors of the Boston 
Transcript, the Indianapolis News, the Chicago Her- 
ald, the Philadelphia Evening Ledger, the New 
York Times, the American Magazine and the Cen- 
tury, for their kind permission to reprint. 

W. P. E. 

Stockbridge, 
Massachusetts. 



CONTENTS 
SECTION I 

AMERICAN PLAYS 

PAGE 

Playing the Piper 3 

"Kindling" — An Honest Play 12 

Warfield in the Spirit World 17 

As Augustus Thomas Thinks 25 

Broadway Discovers the Arabian Nights ... 34 

Chewing Gum and Reform 44 

A Quaint Tale from the Orient 50 

Belasco and Hypnotism . 59 

What Bishops Do in Their Youth 66 

Adventures of a Soul at the Winter Garden . . 75 

Holding the Mirror Up to Art 82 

Mr. Cohan's Belief in Miracles 90 

A Victory of Unpretentiousness 98 

The Song of Songs, Which is Sheldon's . . .104 

The Poor Working Girl Suffers Again . . .110 

"The Unchastened Woman," a Real Character 

Study 116 

The Easy Lot of the Stage Hero 123 

Don Juan Redivivus 128 

Mrs. Fiske Among the Mennonites 134 



CONTENTS 
SECTION II 

FOREIGN PLAYS 



A Little Side-Street in Arcady .... 
A Little Flyer in Joy 

An Intimate Theater and an Unusual Play 
Bernstein and Belasco at their Best . 

Maude Adams as a Murderess 

"The Phantom Rival" and Miss Crews . 
Barker Brings the New Stage-Craft . 
A Few Moralizings from "The Weavers" 
A Twentieth-Century Tragedy .... 



SECTION III 



Shakespearean revivals 



141 

148 

155 
165 
172 
179 
188 

195 

202 



On Finding the Joke in "Othello" . . . .211 

Miss Anglin and the Bard 217 

Do You Believe in Gold Fairies? 234 

"The Tempest" without Scenery 241 

SECTION IV 

plays, players, and acting 

Our Comedy of Bad Manners 249 

The Real Foes of the Serious Drama .... 265 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

George Arliss — A Study in Acting 277 

What is a Good Play ? 291 

The Man of Letters and the New Art of the 

Theater 307 

What is Entertainment*? 326 

A Quiet Evening in the Theater 343 

Middle-Aged Moralizing for Yeasty Youngsters 351 

On Letting the Players Alone 358 

The Teaching of Shakespeare in the Schools . 365 
The Vexed Question of Personality .... 379 
The Lesson of the Washington Square Players . 396 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

The Return of Peter Grimm (set) . . . Frontispiece 



TACIXG 
PAGI 



The Return of Peter Grimm 17 

Kismet 34 

Broadway Jones 44 

The Yellow Jacket 50 

Romance 66 

The Show-Shop 82 

The Song of Songs 104 

Pomander Walk 141 

The Pigeon 155 



SECTION I 
AMERICAN PLAYS 



PLAYING THE PIPER 

"The Piper" — New Theater, January jo, igu 

One of the most common of tragedies on this 
somewhat imperfect planet results from lack of 
proper adjustment or the meeting at the right time 
of the right elements. A man who might have been 
a fine actor is born of Puritan parents and wastes 
his life peddling life insurance, while the daughter 
of his easy-going neighbors enters on a stage career, 
thus robbing the world of a perfectly good stenog- 
rapher. An East Side gutter snipe, with a genius 
for finance, is left to shift for himself, without train- 
ing or guidance, and ends his brief career in Sing 
Sing, while many a business, besides the railroads, 
is crying for efficient management. 

And Josephine Preston Peabody of Cambridge, 
Mass., writes a poetic drama called "The Piper," 
which takes a prize in England, only to have it pro- 
duced at the New Theater with a woman in the title 
part, and thus what might have been a valuable 
object lesson to the public of the fact that a poetic 

3 



4 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

drama is not necessarily a dull and lifeless thing, 
is robbed of its chief appeal. 

We are not inclined easily to forgive the New 
Theater for casting a woman, even Miss Matthison, 
as the Piper. We are not at all inclined to take 
any stock in the assertion that nobody else could be 
found for the part. We happen to know that Wal- 
ter Hampden originally held the American rights to 
this drama, and we shrewdly suspect that his services 
could have been secured, even if Mr. Skinner, for 
whom the part was written, had declined to play it. 
Furthermore, we are not at all convinced that 
Jacob Wendell of the New Theater Company could 
not have played it. At least Mr. Wendell is a man. 
At least he has a sense of humor, blitheness, dash, 
charm. It was essential, at any rate, for a proper 
presentation of the play that some man should as- 
sume the title part. 

That is as plain as A B C. The Piper was a man. 
He was not a ladylike man. He was not a somber, 
plaintive, sobby man. He was free, roving, humor- 
ous, kindly, shrewd, combative. He was as male 
as Chantecler. And there is no more reason why 
Miss Matthison should have been assigned to the 
part than why Miss Adams should have played 
Rostand's rooster. Indeed, there is less reason, for 



PLAYING THE PIPER 5 

the New Theater is not under a strictly "commer- 
cial" management. 

It is rumored that Miss Matthison, like Miss 
Adams, is enamoured of the masculine roles. Such 
a phenomenon is not new among actresses. The 
female Hamlets have been legion. Miss Matthi- 
son, it is reported, aspires to play the title part in 
her husband's drama, "The Servant in the House." 
But that is no reason for letting her do it. Prob- 
ably she puts altogether too much stress on the power 
of her elocution. Her delivery of exalted speech 
is, indeed, beautiful and impressive, though inclined 
to become exceedingly monotonous at times. But 
the delivery of exalted speech is not the only, nor 
even the chief, means to the creation of illusion in 
a poetic role. 

If that role be masculine the first and foremost 
requirement for the creation of illusion is masculin- 
ity. Any theater-goer knows this. A woman can 
play a boy's part, because she can look as much, or 
more, like a boy than a man can. But a woman can- 
not play a man's part as well as a man, and on a 
stage where for more than two centuries the sexes 
have assumed each its own characters there is piti- 
fully little sense in her trying. She may succeed in 
creating something strange and wonderful, but for 



6 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

the normal audience she will never create the char- 
acter intended by the dramatist. 

And another requirement of any role, more im- 
portant for illusion than a musical elocution, is the 
personal attribute of humor, if that role be humor- 
ous, of pathos if it be pathetic, and so on. Now, 
the character of the Piper in Miss Peabody's play 
is full of humor. It is not farcical humor, to be 
sure. It is the glimmering, half wild humor of a 
rover down the windy world, of a lover of freedom 
and the open air, of a hater of shams and meanness. 
Did you ever know a hater of shams who did not 
grin in the midst of his most passionate denunci- 
ations, or a lover of children who had a sob in his 
voice*? Can you think of the Pied Piper of Hame- 
lin Town with a sob in his voice? A ring of 
defiance, of righteous rage, yes. But a sob — never ! 

Yet Miss Matthison, to whom was entrusted the 
part of the Piper, has no humor in her playing. She 
never has had. In all her impersonations she has 
never once convincingly played a humorous role. 
She may smile and smile, but you are unpersuaded. 
Moreover, her monotonous manner of delivery has 
of late been growing into something perilously akin 
to lachrimosity. Constantly through "The Piper" 
she has as distinct a sob in her voice as Caruso in 



PLAYING THE PIPER 7 

the famed finale to Act I of "Pagliacci." This is 
not the Pied Piper. This is neither the Piper of 
tradition, to whom, of course, Miss Peabody must 
to a certain extent bow, so fixed is he in our imag- 
inations, nor is it the particular Piper of Miss Pea- 
body's play. This is a plaintive woman reading 
the lines which belong to a full-blooded, defiant, yet 
deeply humorous man. 

When, for instance, Miss Matthison, as the Piper, 
plays to the children in the cave whence "he" has 
lured them, "he" dances among them, piping the 
while, and they are supposed to clap their hands en- 
raptured. Now, Miss Matthison dances amid the 
little folks most gracefully. Every move she makes 
has feminine charm, poetic rhythm. And every 
move she makes destroys by so much more the illu- 
sion. The Pied Piper didn't dance according to 
the approved methods of Delsarte or Miss Duncan. 
The chances are he didn't dance at all. If he did 
he probably hopped grotesquely, giving as close an 
imitation as he could of the inimitable steps of Fred 
Stone. 

You never in your life saw a child enraptured by 
Isadora Duncan, but there never was a child yet who 
wouldn't follow Fred Stone to the ends of the world. 

In other words, Miss Matthison here is doing 



8 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

exactly what has been done so often before in the 
poetic drama, making it seem absurd to the average 
audience. She is taking the life, the naturalness 
out of it. She is making it artificial, "artistic" and 
hence unillusive. She can do more harm by five 
minutes of such pretty posing than she can do good 
by a whole evening's musical recitation of the verse. 

Now, all this comment wouldn't be worth the 
time it takes to read it, let alone the time it 
takes to write it, were "The Piper" one of 
those ordinary "poetic dramas" which have been 
turned out with the regularity of clockwork for 
many a year, only to fail on the stage, if they ever 
reached the stage, not because they were poetic, but 
because they were not human, vital, interesting and 
uncontaminated with pose and the straining after 
"literary" speech. 

But "The Piper" is not such a play. It is a 
human and an interesting narrative, badly con- 
structed, to be sure, in its central portions, so that 
the second and third acts "sag," but full of life, 
color, simple emotions, and the talk of human 
beings. 

Because the dramatic interest is not sustained in 
the central portions, "The Piper" can never rank 
as a completely successful play. The author has 



PLAYING THE PIPER 9 

made the grave error of building up her leading 
"clash of wills" not between two persons seen at the 
struggle, but between the Piper and the figure of 
Christ on a roadside cross; that is, in the brain and 
heart of one character, revealed through soliloquy. 
Save with a poet of great genius and an actor of 
equal force such a method is hopeless. But none 
the less her play does have enough sheer dramatic 
value and enough popular interest to win a wide 
public, to charm them by the music of its verse and 
the human quality of its story. 

It is important, then, that such a play reach a 
public only too ready to scorn the poetic drama, 
under the best possible conditions — that is, with its 
human appeal telling at the full value, its direct, 
simple emotional quality made the most of. 

To put a woman in the title part is to strike at 
the roots of its human appeal, to rob it of natural- 
ness, of illusion; to fill it with pose and affectation. 
We prefer as a people to-day the realistic drama 
of contemporary life. Would we endure for a mo- 
ment seeing a woman play the leading male role 
in "The Boss," or "The Man of the Hour," or 
"Get-Rich-Quick Wallingf ord" «? Of course we 
would not, and of course we should not. But by 
some crazy process of reasoning some of us seem to 



io PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

suppose that the poetic drama can be treated in quite 
a different manner, that it may be "artistic" for a 
woman to play male roles in such drama, though 
everybody is perfectly well aware that it is totally 
inartistic and futile for her to play male roles in the 
drama of the hour. 

After all, this attitude not only is an insult to the 
poetic drama, since it presupposes a kind of un- 
reality and lack of sanity in that form, but it is the 
greatest possible foe to the popular acceptance of 
the poetic drama. That drama, to succeed with the 
mass of theater-goers, must seem real, human, inter- 
esting, close to the life of the people. It never suc- 
ceeded in any nation, at any time, when it was not 
real and vital to the people. It never succeeded 
when it was treated as an exotic, as something remote 
and "artistic," and it never will. 

There is no reason why it should. 

If it is something exotic, remote, then it isn't 
worth doing at all. If it is to be treated any dif- 
ferently from the drama which is real and vital to 
us, there is no reason on earth why we should go 
to see it. The poetic drama is of value only in so 
far as it can persuade us that it is just as much drama 
as the prose form, with the added beauty of height- 
ened speech and a more exalted spiritual outlook. 



PLAYING THE PIPER n 

It is the great superiority of "The Piper" over 
most of the recent attempts at poetic drama that it 
can persuade us of this. Even at the New Theater, 
in a production admirable in nearly all respects save 
the sex of the leading player, it in no small degree 
persuades us. But the persuasion might have been 
complete and the play a popular success had the 
mistake not been made of casting a woman in the 
title role. Hence that error is of considerable im- 
portance, for it vitally concerns the spread of poetry 
on our stage. 



"KINDLING"— AN HONEST PLAY 

"Kindling" — Daly's Theater ', December 5, ign 

Two or three weeks ago, when four women stars 
all came to town at once, it was remarked that the 
two more popular and expert players, Miss Barry- 
more and Nazimova, were exploited in presumably 
the best foreign plays to be had. The other women, 
Miss Illington and Miss Ferguson, had to fall back 
on untried, native material. 

Behold, of the four plays, "Kindling," in which 
Miss Illington is appearing at Daly's, is by far the 
most effective for American audiences, and next to 
it in interest ranks "The First Lady of the Land," 
in which Miss Ferguson is appearing. We hardly 
need better proof of the waning of adaptations on 
our stage, or of the English play which has nothing 
to recommend it above our own product except a 
London run. 

"Kindling 5 ' is the work of a California newspaper 
writer, Charles Kenyon. It is said that Mr. Ken- 
yon has previously written several vaudeville 

sketches, but that this is his first long play. It has 

12 



"KINDLING"— AN HONEST PLAY 13 

much of the crudity and alternate stiffness and 
naturalness of the first play of a promising writer. 
But, like Joseph Patterson's "The Fourth Estate," 
it has in combination with the crudity, or rather be- 
hind the crudity, a certain quality of sincerity and 
directness that make it worth attention, and that lift 
it at times above all considerations of technique. 

"Kindling" is the story of Maggie Schultz, wife 
of a stevedore, and the scene is her miserable home 
in a tenement. Maggie's husband is one of those 
German laborers who reads and goes to meetings 
and has social theories, and is consequently called 
"dangerous" by the master class, which doesn't want 
any theories except its own. One of his theories — 
which, if it is often held in the slums, is certainly 
seldom practiced — is that people like him and Mag- 
gie should not bring children into the world, to grow 
up to almost inevitable illhealth in the gutters — 
human kindling. This theory he dins into Maggie's 
ears, and he is aided by certain settlement workers 
who trail their silk gowns a little too ostentatiously 
through this play. 

But Maggie represents the dumb, irrepressible 
maternal instinct of the female of the species. She 
accepts the doctrine, but her answer is that if it is 
wrong to bring children into a slum world, then the 



14 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

way out is to escape from the slum world — not to 
have no children at all. 

She and Heinie want to get out to Wyoming. 
Heinie hasn't the money. There is a strike on, and 
he cannot earn money. But, as Mr. Kipling has in- 
formed us, the female of the species is more deadly 
than the male. There is no passive resistance in 
Maggie's maternal code. Besides, it is a secret be- 
tween her and the audience that the baby is already 
more than theoretical. Maggie steals to get money, 
so that he may be born in the pure air of Wyoming. 

A good deal of the dramatic machinery by which 
this theft is accomplished, and by which it finally 
becomes known to the husband, is plausible enough. 
It is simply not fitted together into a smooth-work- 
ing engine. Again, after Maggie confesses to her 
husband that a baby is really expected, and he 
realizes the true reason for her theft and sturdily 
stands by her, the final act is not quite firmly knit 
to sustain the suspense as to Maggie's fate, though, 
of course, in the end the rich people whom she has 
robbed drop their charge against her and presumably 
realize a little better the dread problems of poverty. 
In spite of these defects, however, the second and 
last acts of the play are poignant and sincere, and 
it is a very hard-hearted theater-goer indeed who 



"KINDLING"— AN HONEST PLAY 15 

can hear Maggie say, as the final curtain leaves her 
in her husband's arms, "Maybe there are roses in 
Wyoming," without a choke in the throat. 

It happens that Miss Illington was last seen in 
New York in "The Thief." In that drama she 
played the part of a woman who stole, not from 
sheer dishonesty, but to dress well enough to keep 
the "love" of her husband, as love is understood in 
the French drama. Technically the Bernstein play 
is as far superior to Mr. Kenyon's piece as the great 
traditions of French playwriting are older than ours. 
But yet the crude American drama has something 
for us the other has not. It has a spiritual quality, 
it has honest and unaffected sympathy for the poor, 
it has a fair and square recognition that social rela- 
tions go out beyond the boudoir into the slums and 
tenements. It thrills us less than "The Thief," it 
pleases less by well ordered action and suspense, the 
delight of craftsmanship; but what it loses thus it 
more than makes up in sympathy. It came unher- 
alded and undescribed into New York. It won its 
way on its merits. These are the merits of honest 
purpose, warm sympathy and a deep, if crude, emo- 
tionalism. 

Bernstein is interested in drama, Mr. Kenyon in 
human beings. 



16 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

Miss Illington, as Maggie, has never played bet- 
ter. She does not, to be sure, attempt to reproduce 
a German dialect; she does not carry her character 
acting that far. But neither does she "talk tough." 
She strives for, and usually she achieves, a kind of 
rough, honest speech which marks well enough the 
social and intellectual level of her supposed Maggie, 
and then it appears to be her whole object to make 
Maggie a type of the maternal instinct struggling 
with whatever primitive weapons it may against the 
grim inhibitions and injustices of our modern in- 
dustrialism. She never "shows off" in her acting 
in this play. She has no fine clothes to wear, and 
she acts the better without them. She slumps down 
into a rather dumpy, corsetless figure, and carries 
conviction to the eye as well as the ear. Her con- 
fession to her husband is a simple, sincere, touching 
piece of work. If the preceding scene of cross-ques- 
tioning is not so effective, that is rather the drama- 
tist's fault. Her final moments in the play are truly 
touching and beautiful. The part is a good one, 
an honest one, and one which appeals to the ele- 
mental sympathies of an audience. She has been 
wise enough to realize it, and has tried for no fire- 
works. 




THE RETURN OF PETER GRIMM 

Act I 



WARFIELD IN THE SPIRIT WORLD 

"The Return of Peter Grimm" — Belasco Theater, 
October //, ign 

Occasionally David Warfield lays aside "The 
Music Master" long enough to produce a new play. 
He has done so to celebrate the advent of 1911, 
producing in Boston a new drama signed by David 
Belasco, called "The Return of Peter Grimm." 
The present writer dared the east wind to see this 
new play. His trip to Boston was rewarded by an 
evening of rare and curious theatrical interest, even 
excitement. But it was not rewarded by any new 
revelations in David Warfield' s art, nor, indeed, by 
any very vivid character delineation even along the 
familiar lines of Warfield's past achievements. 
"The Return of Peter Grimm" is interesting rather 
as a play, almost as a problem in stage management, 
than as a character picture painted by the actor. 
It is tremendously worth doing. But it is not worth 
doing for two seasons to the exclusion of everything 
else. Mr. Warfield should have it in a repertory. 

17 



18 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

Mr. Warfield is one of those rare players who is 
greater, or more interesting, than most plays. It 
is such men who owe it to the world to play many 
parts, to search out as variously as they can all cor- 
ners of character and experience. 

In his new drama, Mr. Belasco has deserted the 
realms of realism and of conventional emotion. 
Seeking always to be abreast of the hour, he has 
based a play on the alleged compact between the 
late William James and another scientist, that 
whichever died first should try his best to communi- 
cate with the living one if individuality persisted 
after death. 

Peter Grimm, played by Mr. Warfield, is a very 
well-to-do and very amiable and lovable old tulip 
and orchid grower in a Hudson River town, settled 
by his Dutch ancestors. He evidently has a heart 
trouble. His old friend, Dr. Andrew MacPherson, 
enters into a compact with him similar to that which 
Professor James is said to have made. At the end 
of the first act Peter Grimm dies after he has, in his 
stubborn Dutch way, made his orphan ward, Kath- 
rien, promise to marry his nephew, Frederik, in order 
to preserve the Grimm name and the Grimm tulip 
industry. 

Now, Kathrien did not love Frederik, who was a 



WARFIELD IN THE SPIRIT WORLD 19 

no-good fellow anyway, though her loving old 
guardian, in his pig-headedness, could not realize 
either fact. You saw tragedy impending for her. 
But so does Peter, apparently, as soon as he is dead. 
For in the second act he comes back, and the entire 
act is devoted to his efforts to communicate with the 
living in order to persuade the girl to break her 
promise and to follow rather the real dictates of her 
heart. 

This is sheer supematuralism. And in the man- 
ner in which it is put on the stage lies the chief 
interest and value of the play. It is a fascinating 
problem, and before the success of its solution the 
most skeptical and unimaginative must bow. 

The supernatural is handled with the least pos- 
sible use of conventional agencies. Peter Grimm's 
first entrance, to be sure, is effected on a dark stage, 
made plausible by a thunder shower outside and 
the coming of night. The living people in the room 
gradually have a kind of uneasiness; finally they 
light a lamp. Peter Grimm stands there in their 
midst, just as in life. 

But they do not see him. 

He talks to them and they do not hear him. He 
cries to them, and they do not heed. He cannot 
"get across," as he puts it. Only occasionally he 



20 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

seems to affect their thoughts, to stir them to a vague 
unrest, and once his nephew fancies that he sees him, 
brushing the thought from his brain with a laugh. 

Poor Peter beholds the preparations for the mar- 
riage going on in spite of him. He cannot, dead, 
undo the work he did while quick. He cannot in- 
duce Kathrien to break her bitter promise. 

But there is in the house a little boy, Willem, the 
grandson of Peter's old housekeeper. Nobody 
knows who Willem's father was. His mother 
would never tell, and Willem was too young when 
his mother's betrayer left her to remember. Willem 
now has a fever. He is a sensitive child at all times. 
Now, in his fevered condition, he is doubly so. It 
is through him that Peter finally communicates. 

Gradually, in a tense hush in the auditorium, 
Peter's words are felt to reach the boy's ear; grad- 
ually he speaks in reply. The doctor comes in, and 
Kathrien. The child tells them Peter has been in 
the room. The doctor struggles with him for proof. 
Peter urges him to tell who his father was, calling 
to his memory. The child answers the voice, seem- 
ing to the rest on the stage to address the empty air. 
Finally he tells those about him that his father was 
Frederik. 

Now whether this was due to Peter or to a sudden 



WARFIELD IN THE SPIRIT WORLD 21 

rising to the "threshold" of his consciousness (as 
Professor James would say) of a subconscious mem- 
ory, is a moot point, very cleverly left by Mr. Bel- 
asco as a loophole of escape from any charges that 
he accepts spirit phenomena as proved. At any rate, 
the child's confession frees Kathrien from her hate- 
ful marriage, and Peter has accomplished his pur- 
pose. 

The act is more than an hour long. It deals al- 
most entirely with a supernatural situation, which 
might very well make the skeptic smile. Yet it is 
staged with such nice regard to what might be called 
a hypothetical possibility, and it is so replete with 
theatrical suspense and the emotional poignancy of 
a suffering soul — the soul of Peter Grimm suffering 
because he cannot communicate with his loved ones 
in the land of the living — that it holds the interest 
almost unflaggingly, after the first few moments of 
the tiresome Belasco comic relief are over, and for 
many will undoubtedly be fraught with a strange, 
uncanny thrill. 

With this act, the play, as it at present stands, 
really ends. The last act is as mawkish as the death 
of Paul Dombey. Willem dies, and Peter Grimm 
takes him. It is better that he should be dead, bet- 
ter for all, poor little chap, says Peter. And Wil- 



22 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

lem appears to want to die. Inasmuch as in act one 
he had been wild with joy at the prospect of a cir- 
cus, and in act two had been eating cakes to his 
heart's content, there seemed no real reason either 
why his spirit should desire death or his body yield 
to it. But Peter makes his final exit with Willem 
on his shoulder — a modern Reaper with a frock coat 
and high hat — while the doctor contemplates a wax 
replica of the boy stretched out on the couch, after 
the style of the Eden Musee. 

This act is pretty poor stuff. We learn nothing 
more about Peter Grimm. He evinces no sorrow 
that, after all, while he has accomplished his purpose 
in breaking off the marriage, he has not really talked 
to his loved ones, save through Willem. He tells 
us nothing of the compensating joys of the life here- 
after. Perhaps, indeed, we should not expect that; 
we should hardly demand even of David Belasco a 
solution of the mystery of the ages. But at least, 
since we have been shown Peter's spirit returned to 
the scene of his life, it would be permissible and in- 
teresting to let us a little more into his sentiments 
and emotions, to make him and not little Willem the 
leading figure at the close. As the play stands now, 
it concludes for the audience at the end of act two. 

The same setting remains for all three acts, and 



WARFIELD IN THE SPIRIT WORLD 23 

it is a thing of great beauty — the interior of an old 
cottage, wainscoted with oak and with oak beams in 
the ceiling, hung with ancient Dutch portraits, and 
dominated by an old Dutch chimney piece full of 
niches and covered with crockery, pipes and a hun- 
dred suitable relics. In one corner stands a what- 
not bearing bowls of sprouting bulbs. By the fire- 
place are bundles of shoots wrapped up in sacking 
— precious plants which have been the source of the 
Grimm fortune, and really ought to be out in the 
moist greenhouse or store room! There is an old- 
fashioned square piano. The dining-room, off stage, 
is seen in its completeness when the door is opened, 
suggesting not the flies of a theater, but a real house 
extending off indefinitely. The landscape without 
has mellow charm. The house within has age and 
home-likeness and Dutch flavor. And, more im- 
portant than all, in spite of its brightness and cheer, 
it is in some subtle way colored and shadow-filled 
to comport with the mood of supernatural visitation. 
It is a lovely setting for the lovely personality of 
David Warfield, and it exactly fits the mood of the 
drama. 

But as this setting stands unchanged, it must be 
admitted that after a certain point is reached in the 
play, the character of Peter Grimm, which the actor 



24 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

impersonates, also becomes stationary, even a little- 
monotonous. After its purpose is accomplished of 
showing the perhaps possible interference in the 
affairs of the living by one dead, there is no longer 
any interest in the emotional existence of the spirit 
visitor. The play degenerates into mawkishness, 
and loses its potential poetry. We are sure William 
James would have had something more to say. 



AS AUGUSTUS THOMAS THINKS 

"As a Man Thinks"— jgth Street Theater, 
March ij, ign 

A new play by Augustus Thomas is likely to be 
at once interesting and important. Mr. Thomas, 
above our other native writers, combines technical 
skill with a genuine wit, a sense of style, and in 
recent years, at any rate, an intellectual purpose — 
that is to say, he keeps his story related to some 
definite idea and makes it seem significantly con- 
nected with what is taking place in the outer world 
of actual events. 

The first play put forward by Mr. Thomas in this, 
his "later manner" — if we may employ the sen- 
tentious term — was "The Witching Hour," and 
that drama was remarkable for its skillful combina- 
tion of an exciting theatrical story with a serious 
depiction of telepathic phenomena. It enjoyed a 
great success, with John Mason as the star. Mr. 
Thomas followed "The Witching Hour" with "The 
Harvest Moon," a less successful play, this time 

25 



26 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

dealing with the dynamic power, for good or evil, 
of suggestion. Now at the Thirty-ninth Street The- 
ater in New York he is exhibiting a third drama, 
called "As a Man Thinks," dealing still further with 
this dynamic power of suggestion, with mental 
health and sickness induced by our own habits of 
thought. Again John Mason is the star. And 
again the audiences are large. 

Personally, we do not like this play so well as 
"The Witching Hour," though others like it better. 
It illustrates the extreme difficulties of the peculiar 
form of drama which endeavors to set forth an in- 
tellectual thesis in terms of a human and probable 
story. Successfully handled, this is an immensely 
stimulating form of drama, but it requires a man of 
great dramatic skill, and unquestioned intellectual 
authority as well, to handle it. Mr. Thomas dis- 
closed no uncomfortable lack of either quality in 
"The Witching Hour." In the new play we feel 
a certain lack of the intellectual clarity needed. 
The story is there, but the intellectual significance 
of the story is not quite clear. The total effect is 
cloudy. Mr. Thomas appears to be groping. That 
is why we are a trifle surprised at the great popular- 
ity of "As a Man Thinks." 

To tell the story of this drama would be at once 



AS AUGUSTUS THOMAS THINKS 27 

difficult and futile. Unlike the story of "The Har- 
vest Moon," it is not simple, but extremely intricate, 
and the intricate stage play is only too often made 
to seem dull and confusing in narrative. Suffice it 
to say that the leading character is an elderly Jew, 
a noted New York doctor, and the plot concerns his 
relation with a Christian family, and the relations of 
other Jews and Christians with his own family, 
particularly his daughter. Here is one point where 
the intellectual clarity of the play is clouded. You 
are never sure how far Mr. Thomas means to illus- 
trate the interrelations of Jews and Gentiles, or how 
far his emphasis is rather on the purely scientific 
and entirely unracial teachings of the doctor regard- 
ing mental health and right living and thinking. 
Indeed, the trouble with the play is perhaps that it 
possesses too great a wealth of material. Mr. 
Thomas had too many interests pressing upon him, 
each clamoring for exposition. In one act you feel 
that he is trying to tell some wholesome truths about 
Jewish character. In another you decide that he 
is trying to teach that there is one moral code for 
men, another for women, just as the world has long 
assumed, except, however, that Mr. Thomas does 
not teach this to extenuate the men, but still further 
to elevate the women, and through them the family. 



28 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

Then, finally, when his doctor preaches the poisonous 
character of hate to the sick Christian lying on his 
bed and refusing to forgive either his apparently err- 
ing wife or the Jew with whom she has been indis- 
creet, you are convinced that Mr. Thomas after all 
is most concerned to teach once more his doctrine of 
the healing or destructive power of thought. 

Confusion is the inevitable result. But, let us 
hasten to say, it is the confusion of wealth; and for 
that, at least, we may be thankful. 

Another thing for which we may be thankful is 
the style with which the exposition is handled, and 
with which the play is mounted and acted. It is 
seldom that an American drama reaches our stage so 
genuinely distinguished by fine speech, by good man- 
ners and by a natural, easy, seemingly artless exposi- 
tion of the characters and motives of the drama, not 
in terms of those terrible "Do you remember last 
year in Paris" speeches, but in terms of actual 
drama, which serves to explain all that has hap- 
pened in the past without seeming at the moment to 
be explaining anything. Here is exposition, in 
other words, which at once explains the past and 
leads toward the future, toward the second act. 
This is style in playbuilding. 

The opening act of "As a Man Thinks" is bound 



AS AUGUSTUS THOMAS THINKS 29 

to rank high in American drama. Every budding 
playwright should study it carefully. It is Con- 
tinental in its finished ease and polish. When the 
first curtain sinks, for example, you have seen the 
drawing room of Dr. Seeling, the Jewish physician, 
at afternoon teatime. You have made the doctor's 
acquaintance, and accepted him as the finest type 
alike of his own race and the skilled and broad- 
minded doctor of the present day. You have fallen 
quite in love with his young daughter, and with the 
young Christian artist who you learn is in love with 
her. You have seen the Jewish art critic to whom 
she is engaged, felt the unpleasant quality which 
resides in him (and which his fiancee feels, too) — 
that racial quality of clever, obnoxious intrigue and 
callousness to a snub. You have seen the Christian 
wife of a rich magazine proprietor, and learned how 
she has been forced to forgive the amatory exploits 
of her husband. You have even seen the husband, 
a type of our American "self-made man who wor- 
ships his creator," and are prepared to sympathize 
with this wife in her subsequent foolish revolt. 
You have heard all these people talking at an after- 
noon tea, on the familiar terms of intimate acquain- 
tance, and thus you have learned who and what 
they are, but without seeming to have learned. 



30 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

Rather have you seemed to remove one wall of the 
room and watched them off guard. The acting is 
good, the staging (by Mr. Thomas himself) excel- 
lent; hence the air of breeding, of easy manners, of 
correct speech and polite consideration and intelli- 
gent wit, is maintained. When the curtain descends 
you know these people. Many of them you like. 
You are prepared to take a great interest in their 
subsequent doings. This, we take it, is exposition 
at its very best; this is style in dramatic technique. 

If Mr. Thomas could have decided at the end of 
this act which of several possible interests he wished 
to make the predominant one, and then kept more 
directly to that, he would have written a fine play, 
even though the plot is somewhat ordinary and the 
mere emotional interest lacking in tenseness. But 
he drifted off into various by-channels, and clouded 
its message. 

It must be admitted, however, that he did his 
work so well in making his characters human in the 
first act that one never entirely loses regard for any 
one of them, and carries away from the theater, in 
spite of a confused idea of why certain things were 
done, a real sense of having intimately known the 
people who did them. The play is annoyingly near 
being a piece of genuine literature. 



AS AUGUSTUS THOMAS THINKS 31 

And how good it is to hear the English language 
well written and equally well spoken in our theater ! 
John Mason is peculiarly fitted for his role of the 
Jewish doctor. Here is a distinguished man of 
science, and a man of the world as well, who lives 
in a fine house, wears fine clothes and speaks fine 
English. He is simple and quiet and authoritative 
in his manner. He is actuated by the highest ideals 
of his profession. And he never tries in any way 
to repudiate his people. Though not an orthodox 
believer, his whole manner is in keen contrast to the 
other Jew in the play, who harps on "persecution" 
and in general is that type we all know only too well 
of the Hebrew who will not let us forget his race, 
and who, we feel, is constantly ashamed of it. Mr. 
Mason brings this finely to the front. We suspect 
that along these lines Mr. Thomas might most profit- 
ably have developed his play. As it is, he has but 
sketched the possibilities. 

Mr. Mason also has the power of clear-cut, fine 
and sincere speech. His long professional talks to 
his patients — whom here he is treating mentally — 
are never mere sermons devised by the playwright. 
They are actual talks of a physician to a needy 
patient, delivered with earnest conviction and 
fraught with significance. The character does not 



32 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

call for any particular display of emotion. It does 
call for the suggestion of great intellectual distinc- 
tion, a fine and tender heart, high professional and 
racial ideals, and the speech and manner of a gentle- 
man. Mr. Mason fits the role. With his long and 
sound training behind him, he projects the ideal of 
a character worth knowing and listening to. 

Miss Charlotte Ives as the Jew's sprightly and 
sensible daughter, Mr. Vincent Serrano as her young 
Christian lover, and especially Miss Chrystal Heme 
as the Christian wife who revolts from her husband's 
"double code" and is led back by the old doctor's 
advice to her, and by his doctrine of the poison of 
hate preached to her husband, are most notable for 
persuasive performances in a well-drilled cast. The 
play is staged in the key of nature and acted with 
well-bred distinction. 

Certainly there is nothing in this latest product of 
Mr. Thomas, incompletely realized as its good in- 
tentions are, to make us regret his new absorption in 
the "drama of ideas." Never have his people been 
so human as in his latest play. Never have their 
acts been so significant to the rest of us. Never has 
his style been so polished, his dialogue so fraught 
with the keen-edged wit of his own conversation. 
Mr. Thomas has come to feel that he has something 



AS AUGUSTUS THOMAS THINKS 33 

to say through the medium of drama. There are 
those who think what he has to say is not particularly 
important, though we personally are not of the num- 
ber. But whether important or not, the fact re- 
mains that in trying to say it in terms of stage story 
he has been driven to pay a deeper attention to the 
logic of that story, for a stage narrative that pre- 
tends to carry a message is a hopeless failure if its 
logic anywhere breaks down, or if its characters fail 
to be human and recognizably real. 

After all, "as a man thinks," so his work will be. 
We are glad that Augustus Thomas is thinking about 
interesting and stimulating problems of our con- 
temporary life rather than about the peculiar equip- 
ment of this or that star or about "what the public 
wants." It has made a new man of him and added 
a new distinction to our drama. 



BROADWAY DISCOVERS THE ARABIAN 
NIGHTS 

"Kismet" — Knickerbocker Theater, 
December 25, ign 

Broadway has discovered "The Arabian Nights." 
It is immensely pleased with the discovery. To be 
sure, Broadway is not entirely certain yet about 
the new geography. One man at "Kismet" on 
Christmas night was heard to inquire if Bagdad were 
in Egypt. He was assured by his companion that 
it was ! Still, there can be no doubt of Broadway's 
delight upon first looking into Mr. Knoblauch's 
Orient. And that delight will be shared by every- 
body. 

"Kismet," an "Arabian Night," as the author 
calls it, was first mounted in London by that splen- 
did six feet of histrionic vitality, Oscar Ashe. The 
American production has been made at the Knicker- 
bocker Theater by Harrison Grey Fiske, working 
with the financial resources of his ancient enemies, 
Klaw and Erlanger, to back him, and with the some- 

34 




^ 



THE ARABIAN NIGHTS 35 

thing less than six feet of vitality known as Otis 
Skinner to give life to the leading character. Mr. 
Skinner is, in this country, the man of destiny for 
the part — abounding energy, triumphant clarity of 
speech, romantic swagger, physical picturesqueness, 
all are his. For once the right part has come to the 
right player, the right play to the right producer, 
and unlimited financial resources have been wisely 
and well used, not squandered in sham and tinsel. 
Here's a Christmas present worth while. 

And what is "Kismet" like? It is like a tale 
from the "Arabian Nights" — oddly enough, since 
that is what it pretends to be ! There is something 
little short of genius in Mr. Knoblauch's inspiration 
to make it so. We have had plays of the Orient 
before — and there is "The Garden of Allah" today. 
But "Kismet" is not of them. Its ten scenes are in 
the Orient, in the streets and bazaars and harems 
of Bagdad. Its costumes are the costumes of the 
Orient. But its "atmosphere" is not realistic. Its 
spirit is not of today. It is a tale, wild, improbable, 
barbaric, romantic, full at once of childish simplic- 
ity and adult passions, out of the "Arabian Nights." 
It might have been told by Scheherazade to her lord 
and master — with only a shade more spice in some 
of the details had she supplied them ! 



36 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

That is the touch of genius in Mr. Knoblauch's 
achievement — to dare to write a play in ten scenes, 
to dare to make it primitive as a folk tale, bloody 
and passionate and humorous and farther from the 
present than when old Omar sang before his tent of 
the modern unrest and doubt, a tale from the child- 
hood of the race. Well, that is to show us, after 
all, that we still are children who clamor round the 
story teller's pack. 

And what is the story of "Kismet"? Reader, 
you ask too much. It is nothing about fate, at any 
rate. There is much told of fate in the "Arabian 
Nights," but very little actual illustration of it. 
Things happen very conveniently. Fate is Sche- 
herazade's nimble fancy. So fate in "Kismet" is 
Mr. Knoblauch's fancy, or, if you like, it is our 
old friend, the long arm of coincidence. Of course, 
this is no Sophoclean drama, though now and again 
Mr. Knoblauch breaks out into rhymed couplets or 
steals a phrase for a love scene from the Song of 
Songs in an evident endeavor to tone up his work 
to a "literary" plane. He doesn't harm its real lit- 
erary merits thereby, which are deeper seated than 
the mere garb of language. These merits, as we 
have stated, are the naive simplicity and the wild, 



THE ARABIAN NIGHTS 37 

romantic, exotic flavor of a tale from the "Arabian 
Nights." 

But what is the tale? 

Oh, very well. We'll do our best to enlighten 
you. 

Give ear, O king! to the tale of Hajj the beggar, 
who dwelt in Bagdad in the first year of the reign 
of the Caliph Abdallah and begged upon a stone 
hard by the door of the Mosque of Carpenters, clad 
in filthy rags. Allah is great ! 

Now, Hajj, the beggar, had an ancient enemy, the 
sheik Jawan, who had robbed him of his wife and 
murdered his son, and when the sheik tossed him (in 
the first scene) a purse of gold he kept the purse to 
buy him revenge, though he took good care to spit 
upon it first. 

Then rose Hajj, the beggar, and went unto the 
market place, to the bazaar of the tailors, to buy 
him fine raiment. And in the street of the bazaars 
was much color and riot of tongues, and what with 
the screams of shopkeepers and the bargaining of 
buyers, a right brave noise. Then did Hajj, the 
beggar, set one shopkeeper over against another in 
quarrel and run away with their cloth stuffs. Allah 
is good! 



38 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

Clad therein he entered his own courtyard, where 
his lovely daughter had been entertaining the Caliph 
(who loved her, of course) under the impression 
that he was the gardener's son. And, indeed, her 
lips were like a thread of scarlet and her speech was 
comely, and her temples like a piece of pomegranate 
within her locks, though she was but the daughter 
of Hajj, the beggar. Allah is great! 

And unto her entered Hajj, perfumed with myrrh 
and frankincense, with all powders of the merchants 
— which he had stolen. 

And entered after him the merchants and the Bag- 
dad police, and took him before the Wazir Mansur, 
chief of police. Now, police departments were in 
ancient Bagdad much like those of today. In a 
word, graft! The Wazir was "in bad" with his 
accounts, and he wanted the young Caliph out of 
the way to avoid an investigation. Just as his beau- 
tiful limbed ebony sworder was about to chop off 
Hajj's thieving right hand, the Wazir had an in- 
spiration. He would spare Hajj and marry his 
daughter, if Hajj would murder the Caliph for him. 
Now, Hajj loved his right hand. He consented. 

So we see Hajj going back to his house in robes 
more resplendent than ever to break the glad tidings 
to his lovely daughter. But his lovely daughter 



THE ARABIAN NIGHTS 39 

wanted none of the Wazir. She wanted the garden- 
er's son. She was dragged away to greatness pro- 
testing violently. 

Now do we see the Caliph holding court before 
the palace, overlooking the towers and minarets of 
Bagdad, all red and golden in the sun, the sun of 
Allah's tropic noon. We see the sheik, Hajj's foe, 
cast temporarily into prison as a suspicious person. 
Next we see Hajj, as a juggler, come with half- 
naked dancers from Egypt to amuse the Caliph, who, 
in all sooth, cares not for the dancers but smells of 
a rose given to him by Hajj's daughter, herself the 
Rose of Sharon. Hajj stabs the Caliph — the beg- 
gar is good for his bargain. But under these white 
robes of state the Caliph wears — oh, Allah be 
praised ! — is a shirt of mail. The blow is harmless. 
Now is poor Hajj cast into a dungeon, deep and 
dark. 

But Allah is good ! Therein is his foe, the sheik. 
Hajj breaks his chains and murders his foe with a 
triumphant laugh. Then, when the gaoler comes 
to release the sheik, who is pardoned, it is Hajj who 
is carried out and the dead body of the sheik the cruel 
gaoler kicks with his pointed shoe. Allah is all- 
powerful ! 

Goes Hajj now by a secret passage he has discov- 



40 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

ered — praise be to Allah and one of the Wazir's 
disgruntled wives ! — to the Wazir's harem, to rescue 
his daughter from the man he now realizes will be 
overthrown and disgraced by the Caliph. We look 
upon the harem, aye, upon the unveiled inmates 
pass we masculine judgment. Unveiled? nay, 
more, two or three undress completely and dive into 
a pool, like small boys into the swimming hole when 
a carry-all is heard coming up the road close by. 
[It may be recalled, to come down to the current 
year, that in Siam dramatic realism is carried to a 
similar conclusion, ladies bathing on the stage when 
no men characters are present, in total oblivion of 
an audience. Thus do realism and romance touch 
hands!] We see the Rose of Sharon brought pro- 
testing in, and we see the Wazir gloat over her. 
She is led out to be robed in state for the nuptial as 
Hajj, none too soon, comes up through a trapdoor 
in the stage — pardon, through a trap in the floor of 
the harem, under a real Turkish rug. 

Ha, Ha! Hajj discovers that the Wazir is the 
son of the sheik. He has killed the father. Now 
for the son! The deed is done. The Wazir is 
shoved into the pool where the harem inmates late 
have bathed. Hajj holds him under and counts the 
diminishing bubbles as they rise. Hamilton Re- 



THE ARABIAN NIGHTS 41 

velle, the actor of the Wazir, appears no more upon 
the scene. Hajj rises from the now bubbleless pool 
and laughs a mocking laugh. His revenge is com- 
pleted. Allah is good! 

Now comes the Caliph seeking frantically for his 
Rose of Sharon. He is in good time. He takes her 
to be his bride, king and beggar maid, romantic pair, 
starry lovers of fable since kings were, and their 
places but ill supplied by the millionaires and tele- 
phone operators of our latter day degenerate drama ! 

But Hajj, poor Hajj, is banished from Bagdad, 
though he be the royal father-in-law. He is to go 
at sunrise of this night which now closes his one 
stormy and romantic day of glory and revenge. As 
the final curtain falls, he has thrown another beggar 
from his stone before the mosque of carpenters, and 
clad in his rags once more we see him where we saw 
him first, and hear him say "Alms, for the love of 
Allah; for the love of Allah, alms!" And then we 
hear him snore. The moonlight sleeps on Bagdad's 
roofs and touches to silver the distant domes and 
minarets. Hajj has had his day. Tomorrow — 

Tomorrow, we go down to Wall Street again. 

The one part in this naive and romantic fable 
which links its picturesque episodes together and 
gives it a personal and dramatic interest is that of 



42 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

Hajj, the beggar, and, of course, Mr. Skinner is 
amply able to fill the bill, the more as that slight note 
of unreality in his acting which sometimes mars his 
impersonations of seriously romantic roles or roles 
in modern plays, here admirably blends with the 
glamour of dreamlike fable. His impersonation is 
consistently the beggar, though the part is rather 
sketched broadly than characterized in detail. 
Never for an instant is he anything else, be his bor- 
rowed robes ever so grand. It is lit with a grim, 
masculine humor, it is touched with tenderness for 
his daughter and with fierce passions of revenge. 
But humor, tenderness, passion, are all held in the 
key of romantic fable, and so while he counts the 
bubbles that arise from the drowning Wazir there 
is no horror in the episode, and when he goes to sleep 
again at last in his beggar's rags there is no sorrow 
— only a half smile for the round-the-circle logic of 
it, and the pleasant finish to a good tale told. 

And Mr. Skinner's speech is a perpetual delight. 
He was trained in the days when the ability to speak 
well was supposed to be a part of an actor's equip- 
ment. 

Alas! so much cannot be said for Hamilton Re- 
velle. We suspect those bubbles were in his mouth 
all along. Fred Eric, as the Caliph, however, spoke 



THE ARABIAN NIGHTS 43 

beautifully — if somewhat sentimentally. The cos- 
tumes, by Percy Anderson of London, were rich, 
harmonious, beautiful, and we fancy, from Mr. An- 
derson's past records, probably not incorrect to 
ancient Oriental life. The scenery was good, the 
many changes made with astonishing speed and 
smoothness, the crowds well handled, the "atmos- 
phere" created. Perhaps we might cavil at the 
entre-act music, which was Oriental chiefly by its 
monotony. 

But why cavil before a feast of so much good 
fare? "Kismet" is what it claims to be, an Arabian 
night on the stage. It has done what it set out to 
do, and having arrived at something long, long ago 
proved to be potent over the human spirit, its pop- 
ular success cannot be doubted now. Human 
nature hasn't so greatly changed since Scheherazade 
told her tales. 

Allah be praised ! 



CHEWING GUM AND REFORM 

11 Broadway Jones" — George M. Cohan Theater, 
September 23, IQI2 

The good spirits who hover over babies' cradles 
bearing gifts were generous with George M. Cohan. 
They gave him nimble legs, and a knack of whistling 
up tunes from the vasty void of memory, and con- 
siderable comic ability as an actor, and finally the 
born playwright's gift — which can never be acquired 
by purchase — of setting upon the stage, in terms of 
speech and action, exactly the episodes of a story 
which the audience wishes to see. 

More's the pity, then, that the good spirits could 
not have a little further endowed him with the attri- 
butes of good taste and a knowledge of life. If they 
had he would be deserving of the praise which Arnold 
Bennett recently heaped upon him. Mr. Bennett 
admired his works because they were strictly Ameri- 
can and "unpretentious." 

That's so like Mr. Bennett ! 

Of course, what he meant was, that they were 

44 



CHEWING GUM AND REFORM 45 

American because vulgar, or without good taste, and 
"unpretentious" because simple minded and super- 
ficial. Mr. Bennett is typically an insular, middle- 
class, educated Briton. Hence his unconscious pat- 
ronage. Who but such a one could praise George 
M. Cohan by insulting America^ 

However, this isn't to be about Arnold Bennett, 
but Mr. Cohan. Cohan's latest play, "Broadway 
Jones," is now current in New York, and success- 
ful, and Mr. Cohan acts the leading part, while his 
papa and mamma act other parts therein. It is Co- 
han's second "straight" play, without music, the first 
being "Popularity," which belied its title some years 
ago. "Get Rich Quick Wallingford" was made 
from somebody else's story, so does not count. 

In "Broadway Jones" Cohan has deliberately set 
out to write a comedy with some definite character 
study in it, and character development, and to act 
this character himself in a legitimate vein. More re- 
markable still, he has to a considerable degree suc- 
ceeded. His success up to a certain point, indeed, 
is brilliant, and when he fails he fails for exactly 
these two reasons — his lack of good taste and his lack 
of a real knowledge of the world. 

"Broadway" Jones is a young sport who was born 
in a "jay" town in Connecticut — all towns which are 



46 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

not New York being jay towns to Mr. Cohan. 
There his father ran a chewing gum factory. But 
young Jones came to Broadway when his father died, 
leaving his uncle to make the chewing gum, and pro- 
ceeded to hit the high spots. When the play opens 
we see "Broadway" coming home in the cold gray 
dawn to his luxurious apartment, in a condition of 
alcoholic fuddle which provides a comedy scene with 
the butler. 

Later, when "Broadway" has sobered up, we learn 
that he is $50,000 in debt, and has, the night before, 
engaged himself to a rich widow old enough to be 
his mother, a horrible creature no less repulsive be- 
cause she is more or less copied from an actual female 
well known to the Broadway of reality. There is 
something so inherently vulgar in the character and 
the episode that we instinctively lose sympathy with 
"Broadway" at once. He sinks below the level of 
comedy. If Mr. Cohan had good taste he would 
know this. 

Scarcely have we seen the widow when the news 
comes to "Broadway" that his uncle has died, leav- 
ing him the chewing gum business, and hard upon 
this news comes an offer from the chewing gum 
trust to buy him out for a million. "Broadway" 



CHEWING GUM AND REFORM 47 

smashes the furniture in his joy, and flies from the 
widow to Connecticut. 

The rest of the play takes place in the Connecticut 
village, either in the home of a simple family there 
or in the chewing gum works. Some of it is farce, 
some of it is caricature, some of it actually succeeds 
in being what Mr. Cohan evidently intended — a 
study in character development — for young Broad- 
way becomes sobered by the situation, realizes that 
to sell out the business means the ruin of the town, 
has his family pride and fighting blood aroused, and 
finally settles down to marry a nice girl and run 
the gum plant. 

The skill with which Mr. Cohan has indicated the 
humorous effect upon the young rounder of these 
new ideas of responsibility is capital comedy. Par- 
ticularly happy is "Broadway's" delight over his 
first speech to his workmen, so that he goes out and 
makes another speech every so often. Not only is 
this well indicated in the play, but it is capitally 
enacted by the author. Mr. Cohan has dropped his 
nasal twang. Most of the time he stands up 
straight. Only occasionally does he try to be hu- 
morous with his legs; very frequently he talks like 
a normal human being, and points his comedy by 



48 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

legitimate methods. You can laugh at him with- 
out being ashamed of yourself, and you can enjoy 
the genuine touches of character delineation from 
curtain to curtain. 

Yet the play leaves you emotionally quite cold. 
It never gets below laughter. After all, as Kipling 
might have said, "What do they know of Broadway 
who only Broadway know 4 ?" Young Jones' slang 
is very funny and bright. Mr. Cohan's situations 
follow each other with rapid-fire and sure develop- 
ment. Yet all the time we know in our hearts that 
any youth who could have sold himself even tem- 
porarily for money to such a creature as the Broad- 
way widow here depicted is not lightly to be re- 
formed; that all this midnight "sousing" where the 
bright lights gleam is a more serious matter than Mr. 
Cohan realizes; and, finally, that the interjection of 
a stunted male actor in the part of a fat "boy" who 
talks what is known as Reub dialect doesn't quite 
adequately mark the difference between life on 
Broadway and life in Connecticut. 

In other words, Mr. Cohan's play is entirely super- 
ficial. It is bright, it has the rapid and sure com- 
plexity and development of farce, it is filled with 
shrewdly caught touches of observation, both of 
manners and superficial traits of character. But it 



CHEWING GUM AND REFORM 49 

is lacking, naturally, in good taste and distinction, 
and it is lacking in that deeper understanding of 
men and of life which makes for true comedy and 
gives reality and emotional glow to the puppets in 
a play. 

But it marks, nevertheless, a considerable step for- 
ward for Mr. Cohan. Perhaps, if he should go to 
a Connecticut village and live there an entire year, 
never once visiting Broadway during his stay, never 
once reading a copy of the Morning Telegraph, he 
might write an even better play at the end of the 
twelfth month. He might. On the other hand, he 
might be too bored to write anything. 



A QUAINT TALE FROM THE ORIENT 

"The Yellow J acker— Fulton Theater, 
November 4, 1Q12 

It seems thrice a pity that there is not yet 
organized in New York a branch of the Drama 
League, or some kindred organization, which could 
come to the rescue of "The Yellow Jacket," now 
struggling for survival at the Fulton Theater. For 
here is one of the most interesting, novel and well- 
mounted plays of the season, suffering the usual fate 
of the innovator. Yet those who do see it come 
away delighted. It needs an "organized audience" 
to give it a helping hand. 

"The Yellow Jacket" is not a wasp. It is a real 
Chinese play, or rather a mosaic of several Chinese 
plays, adapted by George C. Hazelton and the actor, 
Benrimo, and staged by the latter. Mr. Benrimo 
came from the old San Francisco, and he has ob- 
served the Chinese Theater for many years. It is 
said he is more familiar with its methods than almost 
any other American, at least any American connected 

50 



QUAINT TALE FROM THE ORIENT 51 

with our stage. We must therefore believe that 
when he says he has staged "The Yellow Jacket" 
in the Chinese manner he is telling the truth. Any- 
how, he has staged it in a manner totally different 
from our own, a manner quaint, childlike, naive — 
and beautiful. It seems to us authentically Orien- 
tal, different, primitive, and we yield to its spell. 
That is the main thing. If he has also shown us a 
true picture of Chinese theatrical customs and con- 
ventions, so much the better. 

We do not pretend to know the names of the 
original sources of "The Yellow Jacket," nor 
whether they were works of the Ming dynasty or 
some other dynasty, whether they are six hundred 
years old or six. The chances are they antedate 
Shakespeare, of course. As the play has reached 
us, it is a simple little story, with allegorical and fan- 
tastic embellishments, of mother love and brave- 
hearted youth triumphant over obstacles, and re- 
warded at last by the lips of a lady fair. It is a 
tale old as this old earth. 

It seems that Wu Sin Yin, governor of a province, 
had two wives. The first one had given birth to 
an infant, Wu Hoo Git, who was regarded as ugly 
by all save his mother, Chee Moo. Now Wu Sin 
Yin wished to get her and the brat out of the way 



52 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

that he might have a beautiful heir by his second 
wife, so he ordered a farmer to kill her. The 
farmer, however, killed a flirtatious maid instead, 
mutilating her features to escape detection, and little 
Wu Hoo Git was carried off by the farmer and his 
wife (Chee Moo having died) and raised secretly 
as their foster child. 

When next we see him, Wu Hoo Git has come to 
man's estate. He is now a beautiful youth, going 
forth to see the world and conquer back his kingdom 
from the elegant Wu Fab Din, child of the second 
wife. Wu Fab Din is called The Daffodil, and 
he is a Chinese Bunthorne. On his quest of the 
Yellow Jacket (emblem of his true rank), Wu Hoo 
Git is accompanied by an aged philosopher, a sort 
of Chinese Wotan, though less loquacious. He falls 
into the trap of pleasure and is lured by the maids 
who sell their love for gold. He crosses high moun- 
tains, deep streams, endures snow and cold, meets 
the thunder god and the great spider, but ultimately 
he conquers his rival, aided by his mother's spirit 
looking down from heaven, and by his sweetheart's 
slipper — his sweetheart, the lovely Plum Blossom. 

Now, all this is but a simple, naive folk tale, 
played by Saxon actors and actresses dressed up in 
Chinese robes, yet so quaintly is it presented and so 



QUAINT TALE FROM THE ORIENT 53 

artlessly sincere have the adapters kept it that we 
believe it all, even when we smile at it, and more 
than once it touches our hearts. 

The curtain rises on a second curtain, or pair of 
curtains, embroidered with dragons, and between 
these curtains comes the Chinese property man, who 
is supposed to be invisible to the audience. He non- 
chalantly sucks a cigarette and beats a gong. Props 
is played by Arthur Shaw, a son of Mary Shaw, and 
though he does not speak a word during the entire 
performance, and is supposed to be invisible, his 
complete indifference to the play and his perfunctory 
performance of his various duties are irresistibly 
comic. After Props has beaten his gong Chorus 
comes forth, impersonated by Signor Perugini. 
Chorus bows, although admitting it is a little below 
his dignity, thanks the audience for assembling and 
bids them, if they find anything amusing in the play, 
to honorably smile. (Yes, he splits his infinitive.) 
He does not disclose the authorship of the play, and 
he is abruptly cut off in his urbanities by Props again 
with his gong. 

Now the curtains part, and we see the stage set 
as a great, high interior of gold, evidently represent- 
ing the interior of a Chinese theater. At the back, 
center, is an alcove where the musicians sit. At the 



54 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

back, right and left, are two doors for the entrance 
and exit of characters. The Chorus has a little table 
in front of the band, where he sits and explains what 
goes on. Props has a big box and a pile of furni- 
ture at one side — all the paraphernalia needed to 
dress the stage for the various scenes. He has also 
two or three assistants, whom he kicks about. 

Now the first scene is a room in Wu Sin Yin's 
palace, so Props puts a table in the center of the 
stage, a stiff black chair on either side of it, and 
stands behind one of the chairs with a cushion in his 
hand, scornfully puffing his cigarette. Chorus tells 
us this is a room in the palace, and Wu Sin Yin en- 
ters, walks down the stage and informs the audience 
who he honorably is. Then he goes to the chair, 
Props puts the cushion under him, and he sits. As 
the other characters enter they, too, tell who they 
are. We speedily learn of Wu Sin Yin's plot to 
have his first wife and baby killed, and the scene 
changes to Chee Moo's garden — a change accom- 
plished merely by removing the chairs and table. 
Chee Moo enters with a piece of wood dressed in a 
baby dress. The audience, of course, laughs at this, 
as it has laughed at much before. But she has not 
spoken three words to this stick of wood before the 
audience is listening attentively, the stick of wood 



QUAINT TALE FROM THE ORIENT 55 

forgotten. After all, it is quite as real as the baby 
dolls we use to represent infants in arms on our 
western stage! 

When Lee Sin, the farmer, slays Fancy Beauty, 
the pert maid, instead of Chee Moo, there is another 
laugh, because he cuts off her head by pulling a red 
bean bag from under her kimono and holding it 
aloft. Again, when Chee Moo dies, leaving her 
babe in a garden, there is a laugh, because Props 
brings a ladder, leans it against a balcony built over 
the alcove where the band is stationed, and Chee 
Moo climbs this to heaven. Yet, as she stands on 
the balcony looking down upon her stick-of-wood 
babe once more, you forget to laugh, your imagina- 
tion catching you up. 

Here ends part one of the play, and Chorus comes 
out, delighted at the applause, and now confesses 
that he himself wrote the drama and drilled all the 
players. He honorably bows his thanks. 

Part two shows the babe, Wu Hoo Git, grown a 
fine young man, in the home of the farmer ; a hand- 
some youth, full of fire, eager to learn of the world. 
And he goes forth to learn. Now the false heir to 
his father's province, the Daffodil, tries to thwart 
him, and first sends the Purveyor of Hearts, a hunch- 
back, to tempt him with pleasure. Four little maids 



56 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

not exactly from school are offered for his inspec- 
tion, and he buys one, and together they go out on 
the River of Love. Here Props gets busy. He 
builds a boat by means of four chairs and a strip of 
cloth. Two assistant props stand at the stern with 
poles and pretend to row. One man in the orches- 
tra rubs sand-paper to simulate the swish of waves, 
and the two young people recline in the craft and 
float down the stream. At first a snicker goes up 
from the audience. But George Relph, who plays 
Wu Hoo Git, is a good actor. So honest, so poetic 
is his impersonation of this youth just captured by 
the snare of love, and so honest and quaint is the 
writing of the scene, that in a moment laughter 
ceases. Another moment, and that is a boat up 
there in the moonlight. This, of course, is not alone 
the Chinese stage. It is the stage of Shakespeare — 
the platform stage of many a masterpiece; and once 
more it demonstrates how much of a convention, a 
custom merely, is the realistic scenery of today. 

Wu Hoo Git is soon disillusioned about his little 
love-girl, and presently falls truly in love with the 
maiden Plum Blossom. He falls in love with her 
in a graveyard, where he is seeking for his mother's 
tomb. Props makes a graveyard by hanging white 
cloths, covered with inscriptions, over the backs of 



QUAINT TALE FROM THE ORIENT 57 

chairs, and then standing bored in a corner himself, 
holding up a bamboo pole to impersonate a weeping 
willow tree. At the end of this act, of course, Wu 
Hoo Git learns who he really is, and sets forth to 
oust the Daffodil. 

The Daffodil appears to have been a powerful as 
well as elegant person. He had command over 
magic. He is most wonderfully well played by 
Schuyler Ladd, who smells of flowers held for him by 
the "invisible" Props with languid grace, and speaks 
with a diction and clarity rare on our stage. He 
throws mountains and rivers and snowstorms in his 
enemy's path. Props makes the mountain out of 
two tables and four chairs, and Wu Hoo Git and the 
old philosopher who accompanies him struggle up. 
Props builds the great river by putting a plank bridge 
across two chairs. Props makes the snowstorm by 
scattering a few bits of torn paper. Now, this all 
sounds like one of Everett Shinn's burlesques, but 
the smile at Props at once gives way when the actors 
come on, because they are playing sincerely a sincere 
story, which captures you out of the ages and the 
alien lands. As an illustration of the imaginative 
touches in which this tale abounds we may cite the 
death of the old philosopher, in the snowstorm. He 
lies down to die ? and Props kicks a red cushion under 



58 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

his head. Then the actor gets up, leaving his cloak 
behind, and mounts the ladder to heaven. Wu Hoo 
Git comes and lifts the cloak on the ground, speaking 
to the dead "form" beneath it. That simple little 
piece of primitive stage business has all the stab of 
spiritual allegory. Of course Wu Hoo Git conquers 
the Daffodil at last, and banishes him to a garden, 
there to smell lovely odors forever, and marries his 
sweetheart, Plum Blossom, as the Yellow Jacket is 
put about his honorable shoulders. 

A word must be said for the music which almost 
incessantly accompanies this play. William Furst 
wrote it. It is played on instruments approximating 
the Chinese, and is made up of Chinese rhythms, 
square-toed and monotonous. Yet this music never 
obtrudes, it cleverly avoids monotony, and it con- 
sistently heightens the scenes where it is employed. 
It is another feature of this rich and rare entertain- 
ment where perfect taste and artistic discretion and 
restraint have been successfully employed. 

"The Yellow Jacket" is a triumph for everybody 
concerned — including the Chinese authors of the 
originals ! 



BELASCO AND HYPNOTISM 

"The Case of Becky"— Belasco Theater, 
October I, 1912 

In "The Case of Becky," by Edward Locke, Mr. 
Belasco has followed the lead he opened in "The Re- 
turn of Peter Grimm," and has sought once more to 
stage something "psychic." Just as in "The Return 
of Peter Grimm," he based his tale on publications 
of the psychic researchers, here the tale is based quite 
evidently on the published records of cases of so- 
called dual personality, particularly, we fancy, on 
certain cases described by Dr. Morton Prince of 
Boston. Of course, being Belasco, what he has 
really sought to do is to give the old tale of Dr. 
Jekyll and Mr. Hyde a scientific varnish, and an 
element of novelty, also, supplied by making the 
hero-villain a girl instead of a man. 

The scene is laid in the sanatorium of Dr. Emer- 
son, a noted specialist in psychotherapy. The Doc- 
tor's pet patient is a girl named Dorothy, who is a 
sweet, lovely maid as Dorothy, but who is constantly 

59 



60 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

waking up to find herself Becky, a nasty little bag- 
gage who hates Dorothy and all her ways. In short, 
when this heroine is Dorothy she is very, very good, 
but when she is Becky she is horrid. It seems that 
hitherto Becky has resisted all efforts of the Doctor 
— "Old Owl Eyes," she calls him — to hypnotize 
her, and so to suggest to her that she is dead and can 
never come back any more. But the time is ap- 
proaching when the Doctor feels he is going to 
master her. That is the beginning of the action. 

Now, the Doctor has never been able to learn cer- 
tain facts in his patient's past life, which is rather 
an odd state of affairs for a famous psychotherapist. 
He has not discovered that as a child Dorothy was 
the "subject" of a travelling hypnotist, a profes- 
sional showman who claimed to be her father, and 
in that life learned all the evil talk and thoughts 
which she exhibits as Becky. He does know, how- 
ever, that many years ago his own wife fell under the 
influence of a travelling hypnotist, and ran away 
from him. Does not the plot begin to emerge? 

Yes, it is even as you suspect. A travelling hyp- 
notist appears in the first act and he is the man who 
once led Dorothy round the country and from whom 
she ran away. He wants her back. He "calls" to 
her and she comes down the winding stairs. The rest 



BELASCO AND HYPNOTISM 61 

of the play is a battle for the possession of the girl's 
mind, as it were, between these two men, doctor 
and hypnotist. We scent the end from afar. The 
last act shows the doctor's laboratory at night, a 
fascinating piece of Belascan realism, with white 
walls and strange machines, such as the lullaby in- 
strument which croons like the wind and sings on 
three sweet notes, and the static machine with its 
crackling, leaping spark, and that curious machine, 
of which we know not the name, which seems to be 
composed of a small electric fan blade, brilliantly 
illuminated, into which the subject looks as it re- 
volves till the hypnotic sleep comes. 

It is into this strange room that the doctor lures 
the hypnotist, conquers him by the aid of the ma- 
chine, and while he has him in his power learns what 
he has suspected — that it was he who robbed him of 
his wife. Of course, he further learns that Dorothy 
is not the hypnotist's daughter, but his own child. 
His revenge is strictly scientific. He takes away the 
showman's powers, thus depriving him of all means 
of a livelihood, and sends him forth a ruined man. 

Science and the dear old sentimental melodrama 
are curiously jumbled in this essentially improbable 
fabric. It is sometimes Mr. Belasco's triumph to 
make us forget the essential triteness of his themes in 



62 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

the magic of his narration. Here we do not feel 
that he has succeeded. He has failed, too, in another 
respect, very strange for him. In a play written to 
exploit a star, the star's part sinks to a secondary 
place. This drama is far more a struggle between 
the two men than it is a tale of Dorothy's dual per- 
sonality. The good little Dorothy and the bad 
little Becky are both shown to us, and Miss Starr has 
a chance to make the change from one to the other 
before our eyes, as Mansfield did in "Dr. Jekyll and 
Mr. Hyde." (We cannot truthfully say that it in- 
spired us with quite the same sensations of delicious, 
shivery horror.) But our interest is far less in her 
than in the struggle between the two men for pos- 
session of her. Miss Starr is the pawn in her own 
play. 

However, that is only Miss Starr's and Mr. Belas- 
co's concern. We are just as ready to enjoy a drama 
about two men as about one girl. What concerns us 
is the illusion created, or not created, in the telling. 
For the present writer, illusion was not created, nor 
did it appear to be for many in the audience with 
him. The causes of failure are interesting, and they 
seemed to lie deeper than the acting, or even the 
staging. They seemed to be inherent in the material 
of the play. 



BELASCO AND HYPNOTISM 63 

In the course of the play, Dr. Emerson explains 
it was not really the magic drug which turned Dr. 
Jekyll into Mr. Hyde, but auto-suggestion for which 
the drug pulled the trigger, as it were. Dr. Jekyll's 
was really a case of dual personality, a case for the 
pathologist. So be it, but so long as the case of 
Dr. Jekyll is kept in the regions of romance and 
mystery, so long as it is a strange kind of fairy tale, 
we in the theatre are ready to believe it. It be- 
comes true for us. Reduce it to the scientific terms 
of pathology and it loses its romance and its wonder, 
it becomes just an unusual hospital case, so unusual 
that it fails to appeal to our experiences, and so 
seems somehow untrue. 

Just so "The Case of Becky" seems to us, by try- 
ing to establish itself on a purely scientific basis, to 
acquire that curious unreality which inheres in any 
fact that is strange and outside our normal experi- 
ence of daily life. There is much hypnotizing in the 
play, in full view of the audience. It may all be 
quite correct scientifically, though we are skeptical 
on certain points. For instance, after the doctor has 
put Becky into a hypnotic sleep, she still resists him. 
But we shall not attempt to set up as an expert in 
hypnotism. The point is that while an audience 
knows very well people can be hypnotized, and are 



64 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

hypnotized every day by the doctors, nevertheless 
it is something quite foreign to the actual experience 
of the audience, and hence carries very little emo- 
tional conviction. The doctor hypnotizes his rival, 
and then tells him his power is gone. The rival 
comes to, gets up, and lo, his power is gone! At 
least he says it is. Somehow we don't feel a bit 
sure of it. The whole scene has the curious effect 
of seeming like a rather easy stage trick to bring 
about the desired ending of the play. A little hyp- 
notism we can stand upon the stage, but three mortal 
acts of it are too much. It is neither frankly magic, 
nor, for most of us, frankly fact. Of course, it is 
fact, and with our heads we know that it is fact, or 
that it can be fact. But it does not carry conviction 
to our hearts in the theatre. That seems to be the 
real trouble with "The Case of Becky," and not the 
underlying triteness of the story and its straining of 
coincidence, nor the acting, either. There is still 
a mystery in death, which made ' 'Peter Grimm" a 
possible stage work for Mr. Belasco. In "Becky" 
we feel he has tackled material which he cannot 
handle by his pseudo-realistic method. If it were 
done at all, it would have to be done by a man 
who cared less about the obvious story, and far more 



BELASCO AND HYPNOTISM 65 

about a real exposition of medical practice. It may 
be true that Dr. Jekyll was merely the victim of 
auto-suggestion, but after seeing "The Case of 
Becky" we still prefer to believe in the drug. 



WHAT BISHOPS DO IN THEIR YOUTH 

"Ro?nance n — Maxine Elliott Theater, February 10, 

1913 

In many respects Edward Sheldon's new play, 
"Romance," marks a distinct technical advance over 
his previous work. This drama, now visible at 
Maxine Elliott's Theater, with Miss Doris Keane in 
the leading woman's part, achieves, for one thing, 
a consistent and unfailing atmosphere, or perhaps 
it would be better to say mood. It is keyed to a 
certain emotional note, and it does not slump at any 
time into the merely sensational. 

To be sure, some of the players, and more particu- 
larly one player, Mr. William Courtenay, do their 
best to make it sensational, to drop it to quite an- 
other level. But we must do the play the credit of 
laying the blame in this case on the actors. In the 
second place, Mr. Sheldon has here, it seems to us, 
come nearer to consistent, plausible, and really hu- 
man characterization than in any work he has so far 

written. By human characterization we mean char- 

66 




u 

< s 

o 



BISHOPS IN THEIR YOUTH 67 

acterization felt by him, not merely reasoned out; 
and so made more emotionally appealing and real 
to an audience. We were never sure in "Salvation 
Nell," for instance, how much we should have cared 
about, or even believed in, Nell, had any actress but 
Mrs. Fiske played her; and we felt the same way 
toward Mary Page of "The High Road." 

They are real people, humanly felt, in "Ro- 
mance," and they behave according to their natures. 

On the other hand, here, as occasionally elsewhere, 
Mr. Sheldon has been too careless in his appropria- 
tion of situations in past dramas to his own uses. 
He has the excellent precedent of Homer and Shake- 
speare, not to mention lesser lights; and doubtless 
the deed is more or less to be judged by the success 
with which the dramatist brings it off, bends the old 
material to his own purposes. We do not question 
for a moment Mr. Sheldon's success here in revamp- 
ing the atmosphere of Fitch's "Captain Jinks" to 
the new drama of "Romance." His play is in no 
sense Fitch's play. The woman is differently stud- 
ied — and far more deeply studied. The whole tone 
of the drama, its "message," if we may hazard the 
word, is different. It is all unmistakably Sheldon. 
Yet the fact remains that the heroine is an opera 
singer in the palmy days of Mapleson and the old 



68 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

Brevoort House, that this same old Brevoort House 
furnishes one of the sets, and there is a distinct dupli- 
cation of superficial atmosphere. Some people have 
complained that Mr. Sheldon used devices in "The 
High Road" which were used in "The Earth." 
Many more have complained of this duplication of 
Fitch's drama in "Romance." It would pay Mr. 
Sheldon to be a little more careful, for complaints of 
this sort may easily become nasty. He is not one 
that needs to lean on anybody for his inventions. 

But to the story. 

"Romance" begins with a prologue and ends with 
an epilogue, and the intervening three acts drop 
back forty years in time, so that they come with the 
misty glamour of a tale that is told. The charac- 
ters in the prologue are old Bishop Armstrong and 
his grandchildren, Suzette and Harry. Harry, it 
seems, is engaged to an actress. He and his sister 
break the news to the old man. She appears to be 
a real actress, not a lady from the chorus. The only 
charge against her is her profession. 

It is night. By the light of the fire the old 
bishop answers his impetuous grandson's plaint that 
he, the bishop, can hardly know what such a passion 
means to youth. And the tale that he begins in 
the fire-light glow is a tale from his youth. In dark- 



BISHOPS IN THEIR YOUTH 69 

ness the curtain falls, and rises soon — but not soon 
enough completely to sustain the illusion — on a 
room in Cornelius Van Tuyl's house, at 58 Fifth ave- 
nue, on a November evening forty years ago. 

That is where the real play begins — the bishop's 
story to his grandson is enacted before our eyes. 

We find the bishop the ardent young rector of 
St. Giles'. Mr. Van Tuyl, who is giving a ball, is 
his leading vestryman. We are in the polite society 
of the seventies, which George William Curtis poked 
amiable fun at. A great Italian singer is to come 
to the ball that night, Mme. Cavallini. There has 
been much talk of her past, some of which the rector 
hears. He is shocked — and piqued. 

She comes. But when the rector meets her he 
does not know who she is, and she has fun with him ; 
he is a strange type to her, this innocent Puritan, 
and she to him. But through the scene of gay ban- 
ter on her part and bewilderment on his is apparent 
a rising mutual attraction. The rector does not 
learn who his charmer is till later, when a voice in 
the room below arrests him, and looking over the 
rail he beholds this same woman singing "Know'st 
Thou the Land?" from "Mignon" — the air the 
bishop's granddaughter in the prologue had wished 
to put into the victrola, "as sung by Geraldine Far- 



70 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

rar." The old air comes up the stairs, from the 
imagined glow of the ballroom below; the rector 
stands gazing, his heart entangled in romance; and 
the first curtain falls. 

The next act is laid in the rector's study, and we 
learn what his aunt thinks of his "carryings-on" with 
this opera singer, we see him make love to her, pro- 
pose marriage, we realize that she loves him, and 
then the act tightens into sterner drama when to the 
rector comes the inevitable revelation which we, in 
the audience, have been expecting — namely, that 
Cavallini has been the mistress of Van Tuyl. Poor 
little creature, taken up early into a strange and dan- 
gerous life by the gift of her voice, out of a life 
perhaps more strange and dangerous still, her love 
for the rector is the best thing she has ever known. 
To tell him of her past shame is the bravest thing 
she ever did. Our sympathy goes out to both of 
them. 

The last act is the evening of the same day. 
Cavallini has sung her farewell performance and is 
being brought back to the Brevoort House in a coach 
drawn by admirers, to a room full of flowers. But 
she is sad of heart; her gayety is gone. Comes sud- 
denly the rector, evidently fired by a mad, evangeli- 
cal passion to save her soul. There is a stormy 



BISHOPS IN THEIR YOUTH 71 

scene, ending in the rector's change of purpose, fired 
by jealousy and desire, to an equally mad passion 
to run off with her at once. But her love for this 
good man has done its work. Cavallini repels him. 
With a fine, pathetic dignity, she tells him that to re- 
fuse him is the best atonement she can make. He 
goes out humbled, never to see her again. She, like 
the queen, goes away "to sin no more." 

Then once more we see the bishop sitting before 
the fire, and his grandson rising, now the tale is told. 
He pats his grandfather affectionately on the back. 
Where is he going? He is going to the theatre to 
get his heart's desire. They are not going to wait 
any longer! 

The old man smiles. It is Youth ! 

Possibly for some people the fact that there seems 
to be no particular moral analogy between the bish- 
op's story and his grandson's affair will weaken the 
coherence of the whole drama. But the grandson 
is a nice boy, and we prefer it as it is. Certainly the 
main story has coherence, charm, force and a real 
touch of romantic glamour, and it provides a very 
fine acting part for Miss Doris Keane. 

Cavallini is wayward, capricious, alternate smiles 
and moodiness, bright and alluring, full of gay fun, 
and full, too, of the sadness which comes from our 



72 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

reflection on her pathetically predestined past. She 
is a child of the streets and the opera, with all the 
glamour and the strangeness of the great artist who 
rises from such obscurity through such devious, un- 
known ways. So Miss Keane plays her, with a be- 
witching accent, with infectious fun, with delicious 
capriciousness, with true tenderness, too. It is only 
when the last act is reached, and Cavallini rises to 
the pathetic dignity of redemption and renunciation 
that Miss Keane falls short of the mark. Here the 
note is beyond her. Here Mr. Sheldon is writing 
for Mrs. Fiske's capacities, perhaps unconsciously, 
not for Miss Keane's. But it must also be confessed 
that Miss Keane receives too little aid from William 
Courtenay, as the rector. 

Mr. Courtenay, of course, plays first the bishop in 
the prologue. Here the modern training (or better 
the lack of training) of our actors is painfully ap- 
parent. Dressed up as an old man, Mr. Courtenay, 
who has so long "played himself," is lost. His 
speech becomes stilted. He talks in a kind of sing- 
song. He has no more of a mellow old bishop's 
dignity and sweetness than the chair he sits in. To 
be sure, the part is hardly written with the mellow- 
ness an older playwright could have given it, such 
mellowness as Mr. Thomas gave to his two judges 



BISHOPS IN THEIR YOUTH 73 

in "The Witching Hour." But Mr. Courtenay does 
not help. The prologue falls short of its possible 
effect. 

As the rector, Mr. Courtenay is more on his own 
ground — for a time, at least. He escapes a too easy 
priggishness, and so long as Mr. Sheldon gives him 
no speeches which rise above an ordinary conversa- 
tional diction he talks quite naturally. When, how- 
ever, the language is heightened to meet a mood (and 
the author is striving with each new play for a 
richer speech, and succeeding here, certainly, more 
than in "The High Road" in escaping the pitfalls 
of mere rhetoric) Mr. Courtenay becomes once more 
sing-song and artificial. 

His worst failure, however, is in the third act. 
Here he simply lets go of the character altogether, 
and rants all over the Hotel Brevoort. He becomes 
first a Sam Jones in his effort to save Cavallini's soul, 
and then a Caliban in his passion for her body. We 
cannot think that Mr. Sheldon intended anything so 
raw. Certainly the scene could be played in char- 
acter and in keeping with the romantic dignity and 
charm of the rest of the play. We lose altogether 
in such playing the spiritual note on which the story 
proper should end. 

In striking contrast to Mr. Courtenay' s undis- 



74 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

ciplined exhibition is the acting of A. E. Anson as 
Van Tuyl, a gem of a performance that actually 
persuades us for the time into accepting this fine 
gentleman, this pillar of St. Giles', at his face value, 
and attributing his past relations with Cavallini to 
that same extenuating glamour of romance which 
all of us in our heart of hearts look upon with sym- 
pathy. Yes, we make the confession boldly — not 
the confession, the charge! Mr. Anson's complete 
command of the resources of his art is a treat to 
all lovers of acting, and his suave ease upon the stage 
a thing to be copied by many a player. 

It only remains to add that George Foster Piatt 
has staged "Romance" with his usual skill in sur- 
face illusion, and given us that gratifying sense of 
every smallest thing done right. 



ADVENTURES OF A SOUL AT THE 
WINTER GARDEN 

"The Honeymoon Express" — Winter Garden^ 
February <5, ipij 

If we accept Anatole France's definition of criti- 
cism as "the adventures of a soul among master- 
pieces," how is one to write criticism about a new 
production at the Winter Garden 4 ? Henry W. Sav- 
age has been having a fine time recently jumping 
upon the critics. He complains that some of them 
exploit themselves rather than the play they are 
writing about. Yet occasionally that is not only the 
inevitable, but the kindest proceeding. When you 
send your soul adventuring, not among masterpieces, 
but inanities, you prefer to talk about the protective 
tariff or Bergson's metaphysical theories, or even 
your own, rather than to discuss the experiences 
through which you have just passed. 

Walter Pater saw the Mona Lisa — how fortunate 
he lived before that lady was stolen ! — and his soul's 
adventure was recorded in one of the most languidly 

75 



76 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

lovely passages in all the glorious procession of Eng- 
lish prose. But it is doubtful if even Pater could 
have created criticism which was also literature had 
he been seeing a chromo-lithograph on a soap calen- 
dar. Yet even your poor overworked newspaper 
dramatic critic wants to write something as near 
literature as his powers will permit, and he longs 
with a more selfish passion, perhaps, but hardly a 
less intense, than that of the Drama Leaguers, for 
masterpieces. He has a soul — yes, even the dra- 
matic critic has a soul ; and when it can go adventur- 
ing, whether at "Romeo and Juliet" or "Pinafore," 
whether at "She Stoops to Conquer" or "Hindle 
Wakes," the critic then has the materials out of 
which he can himself create something which by the 
grace of God may be not unworthy of print. 

But when the critic has to check his soul in the 
cloakroom and goes in to see not a masterpiece but 
an inanity, he has no materials of adventure to work 
with and if he then comes away and tries to make 
bricks without straw, tries to create something at 
least readable by Charles Lamb's method of chat- 
ting about himself, of causerie, after all he is not so 
much to be blamed. It is sometimes not vanity but 
literary idealism which drives him to it. 

If he himself, besides, were not more worth writ- 



ADVENTURES OF A SOUL 77 

ing about than many of the "shows" he witnesses, he 
would be totally unfitted for the post of critic. 
You can hardly expect him to be so modest as not to 
know that. 

All of which is by way of informing the perspica- 
cious reader that we found Gaby Deslys in "The 
Honeymoon Express" at the Winter Garden in New 
York a most desolate and deplorable form of enter- 
tainment, in which view some thousands of well- 
fed and over-dressed Broadwayites of both sexes 
do not in the least concur. 

For the opening night, speculators — who have been 
abolished in New York, by the way — were asking, 
and getting, as high as $6.00 a seat. We had 
planned to go and see "Joseph and His Brethren," 
but we could not resist our impulse to see why peo- 
ple would give up six good dollars to watch and 
listen to Gaby Deslys. 

Nor do we know any better now. 

The great auditorium of the Winter Garden, a 
converted horse exchange, was crowded to the doors 
with men, women and tobacco smoke. People even 
stood six deep at the rear. It was not the kind of 
an audience you see at "Peter Pan." It was a very 
sophisticated audience. It had on its best clothes. 
Some of the feminine head-dresses were remarkable. 



78 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

Indeed, when the wearers had taken their seats, most 
of their dressing seemed to be on their heads. There 
was expectancy as well as cigar smoke in the air. 
Something was going to be doing, without doubt. 

The something turned out to be "The Honey- 
moon Express,'' described as "a spectacular farce 
with music, in two acts and six scenes." We de- 
tected some farce, but a patient wait of nearly three 
hours failed to disclose any music, though a large 
orchestra was industriously at work most of the 
time manufacturing syncopated sounds. Melville 
Ellis played the piano, and numerous people fre- 
quently opened their mouths and emitted strange 
noises. 

The whole affair was staged by Ned Wayburn. 
As a result, nobody stood still for a second. The 
choruses rushed back and forth in time to the syn- 
copated noises, waved their arms, skipped, made 
lines across the stage, and went off each with her 
hands on the hips of the girl in front, kicking up the 
leg toward the audience. The principals shouted 
and rushed about. The din and the meaningless 
movement were incessant, till the brain was beaten 
into a kind of quiescent stupor. 

And through it all Gaby glided in about twelve 
remarkable gown's and one perfectly good set of em- 



ADVENTURES OF A SOUL 79 

broidered French underwear. Every time she en- 
tered the stage she wore a new dress, and in the 
second act she took her dress off and put on a night- 
gown. Occasionally she essayed to sing, and fre- 
quently she danced in a kind of wild, clumsy aban- 
don. Then there was a black-faced comedian 
named Al Jolson who interrupted the proceedings 
at periodic intervals to regale the audience with 
somewhat dubious witticisms and strange songs sup- 
posed on Broadway to be negro. Through the hub- 
bub a brave little plot struggled for existence, and 
won admiration more for its courage than its re- 
finement. 

Yet, in spite of the best efforts of the industrious 
Gaby, in spite of Al Jolson's reputation and Mel- 
ville Ellis's costumes, in spite of the "augmented or- 
chestra" and the ragtime of Jean Schwartz, the final 
glory went to the scenery and the electrician, aided, 
of course, by the brave little plot. 

Gaby's husband was off to Paris to get a divorce. 
Gaby missed the train. A motor was called into 
service that she might catch another train, the Hon- 
eymoon Express, at Rouen Junction, sixty miles 
away, and forestall his action. Moving pictures of 
the real players, in a real motor, were first thrown 
on the screen, to show the start for Rouen, up Pel- 



80 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

ham Parkway, the Bronx, New York. Then the 
curtain rose on Rouen Junction, with the Matter- 
horn and Mont Blanc on the back drop. The stage 
was nearly dark, the mountains dim. 

Suddenly we saw the lights of the train crawling, 
winding, down the mountains, like a golden cater- 
pillar. A moment, and the tiny headlights of a 
motor appeared It was a race between them! A 
race on the scenery! The audience bubbled with 
delight. The lights of the train grew larger and 
nearer, the lights of the motor larger and farther 
Spaced. Finally the stage was darkened completely, 
we heard the train, we heard the motor. The engine 
headlight streamed out into the auditorium; so did 
the twin lamps of the motor, growing larger rapidly, 
and wider apart. With a cough and a roar, a real 
motor dashed upon the stage out of the dark, side by 
side with a big locomotive, not so real. Out leapt 
Gaby — just in time. The whole race was con- 
ducted with great mechanical ingenuity and was 
greeted with cheers. 

Then the electrician went cheerfully home. 
Gaby put on a new dress, and the "augmented or- 
chestra" once more went at their sweaty task of 
sawing ragtime. 

Now, if Colonel Savage had produced this con- 



ADVENTURES OF A SOUL 81 

traption (which, by the way, he would never have 
done), he would doubtless object in his tactful way 
to this alleged criticism of it, as being quite unfair. 
If we were fair according to managerial standards, 
we should say that a huge audience enjoyed it, that 
it is likely to have a long run, that the gorgeous cos- 
tumes cost a heap of money, that Al Jolson elicited 
roars of laughter, and so forth, ad nauseam. 

But, if we may be permitted to say so, we are 
not concerned with the length of its run, nor with the 
cost of its costumes, nor with the attitude toward it 
of the kind of people who like that kind of thing. 
We are not concerned with anybody's attitude to- 
ward it save our own. There was a time, perhaps, 
in our hopeful youth, when we thought that it was 
our duty to make other people feel as we did, and 
even held them in some contempt if they didn't. 
But that time has passed. We have grown weary 
of effort and weary of contempt. If anybody likes 
"The Honeymoon Express," finding it amusing and 
stimulating, why, we rejoice now that it exists for 
him to see and hear. 

But we still reserve the inalienable right to state 
that we personally got nothing out of it except a 
headache. 



HOLDING THE MIRROR UP TO ART 

"The Show Shop"— Hudson Theater, 
Decetnber 15, IQ14 

"The Show Shop," by James Forbes, author of 
"The Chorus Lady," "The Traveling Salesman" and 
other comedies, has been produced at the Hudson 
Theatre, where for many years Mr. Forbes was the 
press agent, and it is pleasant to report that it is 
not only the best play Mr. Forbes has yet written, 
but one of the cleverest, brightest, most satisfying 
plays displayed on Broadway this season. In fact, 
it is so good that it almost restores a lagging faith 
in the American theatre. It is acted as well as it is 
written, and the whole production might come from 
Vienna without a blush. 

"The Show Shop" is somewhat difficult to classify. 

It constantly skates the line between satiric comedy 

and burlesque, never in its burlesque losing sight, 

however, of its legitimate story, yet never in the 

telling of that story forgetting its burlesque purpose. 

At once too kindly and too farcical to be called an 

82 



HOLDING THE MIRROR UP TO ART 83 

out-and-out satire of theatrical life, it constantly 
pokes such delicious fun at this life that it cannot 
be classed with Pinero's "Trelawney of the Wells," 
where a romantic element after all prevailed. 
Moreover, "The Show Shop" is complicated by a 
novel act containing a play within the play, cleverly 
woven into the story. In Mr. Forbes' other come- 
dies he has tried to pass from the comic to the serious 
(as in "The Chorus Lady") and achieved only crude 
sentimentality. His transitions were like those of 
a poor singer from one register to another. But in 
this latest work he has tried for no changes of mood, 
cutting his work all of a piece, writing it all in the 
same spirit of kindly burlesque, and the result is 
happy artistic unity. For once we have an Ameri- 
can play, so American that it would almost call for 
a glossary, which we could yet show to a cultivated 
European without a single blush of apology. 

The first act is laid in a theatrical manager's office 
in New York, the second act in a cheap hotel on the 
road (in Punxatawney), the third act on the stage 
of a New York theater and the last act in the rooms 
of the hero. The hero is the only person in the play 
who isn't professionally connected with the theatri- 
cal game, and he is dragged into it in Act I. He 
is a rich young fellow, dreadfully in love with Bet- 



84 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

tina Dean, who is a sweet little actress with a really- 
truly mother, who also was an actress once, and 
who won't let Bettina marry Jerome Belden (the 
hero) till her child has made her debut on Broad- 
way and had a fling at a "career." Max Rosen- 
baum, the manager, is about to send Bettina out in 
a play called "The Punch," and Jerome, in order 
to be near her, signs up to play the part of a youth 
about town. Of course, he knows nothing about 
acting, but he "looks the part," he is the "type," so 
the manager engages him at once. In the second 
act we see the manager and his company on the road, 
after the play has failed, the manager telling these 
footlight children in words that are said to be remi- 
niscent of a certain Broadway dramatic Napoleon, 
the sad news. Of course, Jerome is much cut up, 
because if the play doesn't come into New York his 
chance of marrying Bettina is just so much longer 
put off. Therefore he suggests to Max that he will 
put up the money for a new production, and further 
guarantee Max $5,000 if the play fails, which is, 
of course, what he wants it to do. 

"I don't believe I could pick a failure," says the 
manager. 

But Jerome, the amateur, is confident that he can, 
so he puts a dozen mss. on the table, shuts his eyes 



HOLDING THE MIRROR UP TO ART 85 

and counts them out, eeny, meeny, miny, mo. The 
ms. called "A Drop of Poison" is "it." Mother 
Dean, when she hears that Max is to star her daugh- 
ter in it (of course, she doesn't know of the real 
plan), promptly changes the name to "Dora's Di- 
lemma," because she says the name of the star char- 
acter should always appear in the title. 

The girl, however, positively refuses to act in the 
play unless Jerome is her leading man. She will 
not make love to anybody else, even on the stage, 
so poor Jerome, who has had all the acting he wants, 
is forced into this job. 

The third act shows first the dress rehearsal of 
"Dora's Dilemma," of the big climax, where Jerome 
is supposed to have a fight in the dark with a police- 
man, with incriminating papers in his pocket. He 
is supposed to take his coat off, however, so the 
heroine can get the papers, and when the lights are 
switched on she holds the papers in her hand and 
cries, "I am the thief." This rehearsal is one long 
scream for the audience, even for persons who have 
never seen a real rehearsal. Douglas Fairbanks, 
who plays the hero, is of course supposed to act very 
badly, and he does, to the queen's taste. The 
poor author figures chiefly by moaning and wailing, 
as his play is slaughtered. The stage manager 



86 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

fumes. Mother Dean interferes. Max, the little 
Jew manager, acts the diplomat. All the players 
exhibit vanities, and the chaos of the whole affair 
is very comically rendered. Perhaps the best com- 
edy of all is the rehearsal of the curtain calls. Then 
the curtain falls for a moment, and rises again to 
show the actual performance that night. 

For this scene Max sits in a real box in the actual 
theater, with Motiier Dean. All goes well till the 
hero enters. Then he forgets everything, forgets to 
take his coat off, has the fight in the dark, and when 
the lights come on, lo, the poor heroine has no papers 
to hold up, the play is ruined ! No, for Jerome has 
an inspiration ! He climbs up over the desk, he falls 
on the policeman, he really knocks him down, he 
bowls out the other characters, none of whom has 
been rehearsed for this impromptu climax, he seizes 
the heroine in his arms, and exits with her through 
the window, amid the applause of the astonished 
audience. 

The last act takes place the next morning. Bet- 
tina comes to Jerome's rooms, weeping. Hasn't he 
seen the papers'? The play is a hit! The unex- 
pected climax is praised. Jerome is praised for his 
unconventional acting, his freedom from the usual 
routine technique. 



HOLDING THE MIRROR UP TO ART 87 

"What is technique < ?" the bewildered youth asks. 

"Technique," replies the actress, "is something 
you work all your life to get, and the public doesn't 
want." 

At first Bettina and Jerome refuse to go on with 
the play, insisting that they are going to get mar- 
ried at once. Of course, Max has a terrible mo- 
ment at this threat. They mustn't marry — the 
public wouldn't come to see either of them then! 
They must not stop playing, either, because then 
all the company would be out of work. The 
thought of the really nice people in the company de- 
cides Jerome. He will go on with the agony the 
season out — and then for Europe or a farm. But 
he insists on a secret wedding, none the less, and im- 
mediately. He and Bettina are leaving for the 
Little Church Around the Corner as the curtain falls. 

This bare outline will show the satirical scheme of 
the play, the clever burlesque of the hit-and-miss 
of theatrical production. It can not, however, even 
suggest the constant snap and sparkle of the shop 
slang; the keen bits of character observation; the 
amiable fun poked at managers, actors, authors and 
even audiences. For once an author has had a first 
rate idea, and clothed it in first rate garments of 
dialogue and character. It is acted, too, in the same 



88 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

spirit. Douglas Fairbanks is the "star," on the 
program, but in reality he is merely one of a well 
balanced company. From Miss Edna Aug, who 
gives a delicious performance as the manager's fresh 
stenographer in Act I, to William Sampson, who 
plays an old-time actor in love with his old-time 
wife, played by Olive May, every player is capital. 
It is, to be sure, a play of character parts, and such 
parts can always be better filled in America than 
"straight" parts. One of the very best perform- 
ances is given by an actor named George Sidney. 
We are told that for years he has played nothing 
but Jew character roles in such cheap burlesques as 
"Busy Izzy," but here, as the little Jew manager, 
there is nothing to suggest such a bad training. He 
looks exactly like a composite picture of Abe Er- 
langer and Charles Frohman, and he acts with a 
quiet skill and an unforced feeling for comedy which 
is a delight. The part does not call for any of Mr. 
Erlanger's prize fighter moods, but does call for 
much of Mr. Frohman's sweet kindliness. An ig- 
norant little vulgarian, with a good heart and the 
soul of a gambler — that is Max, and that is how 
Mr. Sidney plays him. Ned Sparks, also, as the 
lank, weary, nasal stage manager, is marvelously true 
to life. Play and performance are alike capital, 



HOLDING THE MIRROR UP TO ART 89 

both jolly entertainment and, beneath the fooling, 
good-natured but really keen and intelligent satire. 
You don't have to check either your brains or your 
taste in the coatroom when you go to see "The Show 
Shop." 



MR. COHAN'S BELIEF IN MIRACLES 

"The Miracle Man"— As tor Theater, 
September 21* 1914 

George Cohan has dramatized a book by Frank 
L. Packard, called 'The Miracle Man," and by so 
doing he has, as it were, thrown down the gauntlet 
to more serious criticism. He has endeavored to 
write a play of spiritual forces, a drama in which 
the protagonist is Faith. No doubt he has also sup- 
plied the hope, and trusts to his audiences for the 
charity. But, truth to tell, Mr. Cohan is over his 
depth. We have not read the book from which his 
play takes its theme and title, but we shrewdly sus- 
pect that the author of that book was over his depth 
also. 

The play is not the first attempt to make a drama 

out of the phenomena of faith healing. A similar 

attempt was made by the late William Vaughn 

Moody, and Henry Miller endeavored to persuade 

Forbes Robertson to act "The Faith Healer," Mr. 

Moody's drama. Failing that, Mr. Miller himself 

acted it for a single performance at Harvard Uni- 

90 



MR. COHAN'S BELIEF IN MIRACLES 91 

versity. "The Faith Healer" was the work of a 
poet, and of a man who thought deeply and felt 
profoundly. Yet it was not successful on the stage. 
Not long before, Henry Arthur Jones had produced 
a play called "The Evangelist," which was not, to 
be sure, a drama of faith healing, but which de- 
pended upon the analogous phenomenon of conver- 
sion — which is faith healing of the spirit instead of 
the body. That play also failed. 

Into the probable reasons for such failures there 
is scarcely time nor space to go now. It is sufficient 
to say that the phenomena depicted, especially the 
phenomenon of bodily healing, lie so far beyond the 
experience of the ordinary person today that they 
can with difficulty carry emotional conviction. In 
a credulous age faith healing might have been as 
readily accepted by every one as witchcraft was in 
Salem, or ghosts in Shakespeare. But not so today. 
In most alleged cases now you and I instinctively 
feel that an element of fraud probably enters; and 
in all cases where a genuine cure appears to have 
been effected we demand an inquiry as to the nature 
of the disease, whether functional or organic, and 
we are led from our contemplation not to blind 
"faith" but rather into a still more curious and 
scientific investigation of the mysterious connection 



92 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

between the brain and the rest of the body. 
"Miracles" once built shrines. Now they build 
psychotherapic laboratories. Even in the case of 
"conversion," what was once a common experience 
of nearly every Protestant believer is now to a very 
great extent something we must go to the Salvation 
Army rescue missions to observe first hand. 

But these considerations have not troubled Mr. 
Cohan, or not enough to deter him from his attempt 
to make a play out of "The Miracle Man." We 
are glad that they didn't, for the main idea of the 
story and, of course, of the play, is a striking one; 
and because Mr. Cohan has far too much good sense 
and theatrical taste not to handle it seriously the 
public has a chance to see him in a new role. If 
the play enjoys a moderate degree of prosperity — 
and that seems probable — Cohan's place as a man 
of serious ambitions will be more firmly fixed, and 
it will be easier for him to make his next advance 
forward. Moreover, every time he handles a theme 
with spiritual values in it he unquestionably must 
react to these values, for he is an Irishman. He 
must broaden his personal outlook. We are glad 
he had the courage to step over his head into this 
deep water. 

Here is the scheme of "The Miracle Man." An 



MR. COHAN'S BELIEF IN MIRACLES 93 

old fellow called the patriarch lives in a small Maine 
village, and effects cures, or so the whole village 
believes. A sharper from New York sees in him a 
chance to make money. Though the patriarch will 
take no fees, he would take money for the sake of 
his grand-niece, his only relative, if she could be 
found. The sharper pretends himself to be cured 
of his "vocal troubles." Next he steals enough evi- 
dence to palm off his "queen" successfully as the old 
man's lost niece. Next he brings up two other 
crooks from New York, one a professional "flopper," 
who pretends to be a cripple, and the other a "dope 
fiend," who pretends a terrible cough. The scheme 
is to have these cases cured, to publish the fact to the 
world, and then to fatten on the fees which will 
come in, for the old man will turn all the money 
over to his "niece." 

All goes well for a time, but the sharper reckoned 
without the old man's genuine power. Gradually 
the girl falls under the spell of his benignity, the 
dope fiend falls in love with a country girl in an 
honest way, and finally, when the flopper is cured of 
his pretended malady, a small boy, who is a real 
cripple, is cured also, and even the flopper collapses 
at this. With his two male pals converted into hon- 
est citizens, and his "queen" on the verge, the sharper 



94 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

is hard put to hold his own. Finally the girl re- 
fuses point blank to have anything more to do with 
him unless he reforms also, and between her atti- 
tude and the death of the patriarch even he is finally 
converted, and the last curtain falls on a picture of 
wholesale regeneration. 

It is, assuredly, a pretty big pill to swallow, this 
story. In the first place, it is hard to fancy these im- 
postors being able to carry off their bluff, especially 
in the case of the girl. A crook's mistress is usually 
not the sort who can go into a rural community and 
successfully pose as a pattern of virginal sweetness 
and modesty. Mr. Cohan here, as usual, oddly 
underestimates the intelligence of all those be- 
nighted souls who do not dwell on Manhattan 
Island. In the second place, the character of the 
miracles is so vaguely indicated, the nature of the 
old man's philosophy so shadowy, that he tends to 
become a mere deus ex machina, a theatrical device, 
not a breathing, living force of mind and spirit. 
Finally, this sudden and complete conversion of four 
crooks from wickedness not only to honesty but to 
a desire for a bucolic existence with rural spouses in 
a Maine village is indeed a miracle, when all that 
they have done is to look upon a sweet old man with 
white whiskers and see a cripple walk. Of course, 



MR. COHAN'S BELIEF IN MIRACLES 95 

great things have taken place within their souls — 
nothing less than complete revolution, in fact. But 
Mr. Cohan has neither the technique to portray that 
inner revolution nor the knowledge, perhaps, to 
understand it. We see merely the unconvincing 
externals of the conversion. The real meat of it 
escapes entirely — and would, indeed, escape almost 
any dramatist, for it is well nigh impossible to 
dramatize a soul-state. 

Of course, it may be urged that such people as 
these crooks are the very ones most susceptible to 
the forces which make for a complete conversion, 
and we readily grant it. We, too, have read "Twice 
Born Men." And we even knew it before that book 
appeared. It is also a fact that truth is stranger 
than fiction; but a great many stories, which are 
justified by being based on fact, are none the less 
quite unconvincing in an art form. The truths told 
of in "Twice Born Men" are stranger than the fic- 
tions of "The Miracle Man"; everything in Cohan's 
play might have a basis of fact; but it wouldn't be 
a bit more convincing as an art product. In art 
form a story must not only be true, it must seem true, 
it must let us see the processes going on within the 
characters at all times, so that we can understand 
and be convinced. This task is too much for Mr. 



96 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

Cohan. He has neither the skill nor the necessary 
knowledge of the human soul. The nearest he 
comes to it is in the case of the "queen," because 
her conversion is less a matter of "faith" (and just 
what Mr. Cohan means by faith he seems to have 
only the vaguest idea) than of the sweet influences 
of a quiet home and a gentle, loving old man, whom 
she grows to respect and love. Such influences are 
understandable to author and audience alike. 

The present writer has been accused of attacking 
Mr. Cohan unkindly. He hopes he has done 
nothing of the kind. Nobody can be blind to Mr. 
Cohan's exceptional merits and abilities. What- 
ever he does — acting, writing, staging — he does 
efficiently, remarkably efficiently, up to a certain 
point. He knows most of the tricks of the trade, 
he knows what the public likes, he knows how to pick 
actors, he knows how to keep a story moving briskly, 
plausibly; he knows how to write farce better than 
anybody else in America. But one thing he does 
not know — the human soul. His plays have never 
yet gone below the surface of emotion, they have 
never probed human conduct, whether seriously or 
comically, they have never reached the level of dra- 
matic literature, any more than the plays of Dion 



MR. COHAN'S BELIEF IN MIRACLES 97 

Boucicault did, who in his generation was as prolific 
and successful as Mr. Cohan. 

While we are hailing Cohan as the "leader" of 
our stage, because he gives us so many successful en- 
tertainments, aren't we by way of forgetting that 
leaders are made of sterner stuff than this? Because 
"The Miracle Man" so well illustrates Cohan's 
failures as a dramatist, as well as some of his con- 
spicuous merits (for the story is told, on the ob- 
jective side, with genuine narrative art), it is worthy 
of this considerable consideration, though as liter- 
ature it is nil. It also illustrates his ambitions — and 
for that reason we hope it succeeds. The ambition 
is honorable and may lead to better things. 

The chief part in "The Miracle Man" is adroitly 
played by George Nash. Miss Gail Kane is the 
"queen." She would be more effective if she had 
not assiduously cultivated a round shouldered stoop 
and forward thrust of the head which perilously sug- 
gests a giraffe. 



A VICTORY OF UNPRETENTIOUSNESS 

"Too Many Cooks"— 39th Street Theater, 
February ^5, 19 14. 

It is always a tendency of drama to run to ex- 
tremes, to strong contrasts. If it seeks romance, it 
seeks it in China or Persia, in the Ireland of a cen- 
tury ago, in the mythical kingdom of Zenda. In 
these latter years it seeks sex problems in the brothel. 
Striving to be lowly or bucolic, it turns to Sag Har- 
bor or the state of Maine. Any city life portrayed 
must be New York City life, with a strong emphasis 
laid on the terrible business strain undergone by the 
men and the terrible temptations to extravagance re- 
sisted in vain by the women. There is no play about 
Atlanta, Ga., or Indianapolis, Ind., and, we were 
going to say, Pawtucket, R. I. — though Gus Thomas 
did write "The Earl of Pawtucket," with the scene 
laid in the Waldorf-Astoria, New York. When we 
think what our country is, what myriad problems 
its various peoples face, our native drama seems 
sometimes a pitifully tiny scratch on the surface. 

98 



VICTORY OF UNPRETENTIOUSNESS 99 

And now a young actor, Frank Craven, who be- 
came somewhat famous as Brother Jimmy in 
"Bought and Paid For," has appeared with a new 
play called "Too Many Cooks," and without any 
flourish of trumpets, without any proclamation of 
purpose, without any literary pretensions whatso- 
ever, has made a scratch in a new place, and we are 
disposed to think a deeper scratch than he knew, or 
the "literary" dramatists will admit. 

"Too Many Cooks" is written in the bald ver- 
nacular, with the brisk and picturesque slang of 
bright, middle-class young men enlivening it. But 
even this slang is not the sort you can come away 
quoting. It grows from the situation, and dies with 
it. The fun of the play, like the language, is born 
out of the plot at any given moment. None of the 
characters aspires to a "philosophy," or would recog- 
nize such a thing if he met it. There is no preacher 
in the cast. 

Yet the play is real, it sets before us in its quiet, 
luminous way a cross section of American life and 
with typical American disregard for any niceties of 
expression shows us the naive ideals of the suburbs. 
In the truer sense of literature — if we must apply a 
word meant for the printed page to the acted drama 
— "Too Many Cooks" is literature, because it is a 
true picture with the power to win our interests and 



ioo PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

sympathies, and by winning them to make us see 
a little plainer and understand a little better a phase 
of our national life. If this isn't literature in the 
best sense, as applied to stage performance, we do 
not know what is. It is not great literature, to be 
sure, which will always have style and philosophy. 
But it is far better than the weak imitations of the 
"near-highbrows." 

The hero of "Too Many Cooks," who is played 
by Mr. Craven (like Gillette and Cohan, he acts as 
well as writes his pieces), is a genial, bright young 
middle-class clerk who has fallen in love with a 
pretty little stenographer, and is going to marry her. 
His name is Albert Bennett, hers Alice Cook. She 
is a third generation Irish-American with a good 
high school education, and all the earmarks of her 
nance's class. Just how her Hibernian parents 
achieved the name Cook is not explained. These 
parents are only second generation, and her innumer- 
able Cook relatives have not gone so far as she has 
along the social path. Albert hadn't seen many of 
the relatives during his courtship, since in his walk 
of life courtship consists of being left alone with 
your "girl" in the parlor. If he had, he would 
simply have said he was marrying her, not her "rela- 
tions" — which is American, surely ! 



VICTORY OF UNPRETENTIOUSNESS 101 

That, of course, was his mistake — and hers. 
Trouble comes soon after the rising of the first cur- 
tain. 

The first set shows the brick foundations of the 
little home they are building amid the suburban 
fields somewhere outside of the city. They have 
saved hard to buy this little plot of ground and erect 
this tiny cottage. It represents the best dreams and 
ideals life holds for them. Hopping over the foun- 
dations, Albert points tenderly into the vacant air, 
indicating where each room is to be. But he has 
brought a friend with him — a bachelor friend, who 
makes the kind of remarks bachelors do make on such 
occasions — and Alice doesn't like him. Alice has 
brought a friend, too, who at once tells Alice that 
Albert's "den" ought to be her sewing room instead. 
Albert doesn't like this girl, you may be sure. Then 
Alice's relatives descend. They are, after all, her 
relatives, and she loves them. But, alas ! they strike 
terror to the heart of Albert. They begin at once 
to call the house "our" house, talk about what "we" 
are going to do, and the clouds gather. 

In Act 2 we see the frame of the little home all 
up. Albert's uncle, who is wealthy and unmarried, 
has arrived on the scene. In a burst of generosity 
he tells Albert and Alice he will give them the house. 



102 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

Then he decides to come and live with them in 
it, and begins to plan alterations. Alice weeps. 
Her relatives again appear. It seems her maiden 
aunt was going to have the room chosen by Albert's 
uncle (the only spare room in the house). Albert 
doesn't weep, but he goes around the corner. The 
act ends with the engagement broken off. To cap 
Albert's woes, the carpenters go on strike, and we 
see him at the close trying to lug a bunch of shingles 
up a ladder, to complete the job himself. 

In the last act the house is finished — with the 
shingles crooked — and Albert is nailing a "For Sale" 
sign on the street side. He finished it because it 
was his dream and because he had his dander up. 
But now he has no use for it. Still, he has planted 
those rose bushes Alice had planned for, and one of 
them has borne a single small white blossom, which 
he contemplates ruefully. We need scarcely add 
that Alice comes back, and at the close the pair of 
little dreamers have packed off all the relatives and 
friends, and realized that they have, first of all, their 
own lives to live in their own way. 

This is a simple tale and it is simply told. But 
the setting is novel, the working out fresh and bright, 
and the spirit of it is so human, so wholesome, so 
sane, the commonplace folks who are its characters 



VICTORY OF UNPRETENTIOUSNESS 103 

so naturally realized from a class which seldom 
figures in our drama, that its appeal is quite irresist- 
ible. 

Mr. Craven plays the part of the young clerk with 
admirable restraint, quiet humor, and a total free- 
dom from sentimental taint. His dream of a little 
home is human, not sentimental, and Albert doesn't 
belong to a class which can make fine speeches. He 
cloaks his feelings in slang. "Too Many Cooks" is 
funny, it is wholesome, it is true — and, best of all, 
it is unconsciously and thoroughly American. 



THE SONG OF SONGS, WHICH IS 
SHELDON'S 

"The Song of Songs" — Eltinge Theater, 
December 22, IQ14 

The Song of Songs, which is Solomon's, which 
is Sudermann's, and which is now Sheldon's. A 
sibilant fate seems to follow it! 

But Solomon need not concern us, the more as 
he probably had nothing whatever to do with the 
original song. The play by Edward Sheldon, based 
on the novel by Hermann Sudermann, is our con- 
cern. "The Song of Songs," in an English trans- 
lation, has gone into a good many editions and is 
doubtless familiar to many readers of this review. 
It is a striking novel, full of that "admirably subtle 
psychology" which characterizes the continental 
novelists when they analyze sensual passion, and 
developing its theme slowly, with a wealth of neces- 
sary but unpleasant detail, till it builds up a con- 
vincing picture of a certain type of woman — or, let 

us say, a certain woman — in whom a sensual nature 

104 




THE SONG OF SONGS 
Act IV 



THE SONG OF SONGS 105 

and a passionate seeking for ideal love work to- 
gether for her undoing. Since Sudermann is a 
dramatist as well as a novelist, it may be supposed 
that he considered this theme one essentially adapted 
to the novel rather than the play form. At any 
rate, he wrote it as a novel, not a play. 

Mr. Sheldon, however, has made it into a play. 
In doing so he has achieved five acts of hifalutin. 

This isn't wholly his fault, by any means. In 
the first place, he has, no doubt in accordance with 
managerial suggestion, removed the scene of the play 
from the Continent to America — to Atlantic City 
and New York. That alone was a fatal error. 
Certain stories can be shifted from land to land with- 
out any harm befalling them. But stories which 
are told in the realistic manner, with their effect de- 
pending so largely on accumulated detail and their 
truth being so largely a matter of local conditions, 
cap not be so transplanted. You can not transplant 
Gorky's "Night Refuge" to a Mills hotel, nor "Anna 
Karenina" to New York City, nor "Hedda Gabler" 
to Indianapolis. Neither can you transplant "The 
Song of Songs." You might, to be sure, select some 
American character who would correspond in tem- 
perament to Lily, and then tell her story. But it 
would be quite a different story, and your play or 



106 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

your novel would not be Sudermann's. Suder- 
mann's story is essentially continental. It is so es- 
sentially continental that the present writer, who 
saw the play before he read the book, was constantly 
uneasy in the theater, declaring to himself over and 
over, "This thing is not so, this thing is not so." 
The moment the scene and characters were labeled 
American they stepped out of the world of reality 
into the world of pasteboard. 

A very good case in point is furnished by the end- 
ing to the second act. In the play Lily marries a 
man who is considerably less of a degenerate than 
the colonel in the book, and marries him because her 
lover in the first act, Richard Laird, a member of 
the Knickerbocker Club, if you please, leaves her 
without asking for a word of explanation when he 
finds she knows the old roue, who is a senator instead 
of a colonel. A year has passed, and Lily has been 
a good girl. There has been no affair with anybody, 
as there was with Walter in the novel. But Richard 
still loves her, and he comes to her room when he 
thinks the senator is absent from home. The sen- 
ator surprises him there, and orders Lily out of the 
house. Now, in the play, she has done nothing 
wrong, and there has been nothing to suggest that she 
is that sort. The lover is a young American, a mem- 



THE SONG OF SONGS 107 

ber of a fine old family. She beseeches the senator 
not to throw her out, not to "make her a bad 
woman," not to drive her into the arms of the other 
man. He is relentless, and she goes, and we find 
her in Act III as the gay mistress of Richard, drink- 
ing cocktails four years later and kissing all her men 
visitors. 

Why? As Americans we resent this. We have 
not been shown any reason for such a degeneration 
in her character, perhaps because the limits of a play 
do not permit of such intricate psychology as Suder- 
mann used in the novel. But, still more, there is 
no reason for it in the situation. Richard is repre- 
sented as an American. Would not his first instinct, 
then, have been to take Lily to some home where 
she could remain till she had her divorce, and then 
have married her? He is not represented, certainly, 
as seeking her at the beginning with any less honor- 
able intent. She had not sinned. There was no 
bar an American recognizes. Moreover, her trou- 
bles were all due to his foolishness. No, in this 
American setting, with the lack of subtlety in the 
character drawing to make matters worse, the latter 
acts of Mr. Sheldon's play do not belong to the first 
two acts at all. They do not follow inevitably. In 
fact, they inevitably do not follow. They are a 



108 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

mere arbitrary concession to the plot of an alien 
story. The play, which up to that point was in- 
telligible at least, becomes false, and the picture of 
Lily going about with her Song of Songs hugged to 
her bosom and babbling about ideals as she turns 
from one amour to another, becomes ridiculous. 
Ideals, we say, do not make a woman a strumpet. 
Of course, they did in Sudermann's novel, because 
we were carefully led to understand how they were 
unsupported by reasoning faculties, how they were 
combined with a nature deeply sensuous to the point 
of sensuality, and how they were debased in a web 
of terrible circumstances that are almost inconceiv- 
able in our American civilization — meaning, of 
course, a Saxon civilization, not the narrow world 
of Broadway, where an alien life prevails amid a 
chaos of races strongly Semitic. 

Accordingly, the play never gets to our emotions, 
in spite of some very excellent acting. Miss Irene 
Fenwick sustains the role of Lily with considerably 
more success than might be expected. Of course, 
nobody who didn't look very young and pretty and 
virginal could carry it off, and yet any actress with 
these qualifications is almost sure to lack the powers 
of subtlety required. Possibly Laurette Taylor 
could play it, but hardly another. John Mason is 



THE SONG OF SONGS 109 

the old senator; Ernest Glendenning the young 
student whom Lily loves toward the end ; Tom Wise 
the old uncle who makes her drunk; and other ex- 
cellent players are also concerned. But they can 
not achieve a moving play. Every effort has been 
made to put on the stage as much of the sexual ele- 
ment as it is believed the public will stand. No 
doubt this is what the manager calls "the punch." 
But the public prefers that appeal in the form (or 
forms) of the Ziegfeld Follies. "The Song of 
Songs," which is Sudermann's, is a novel, and a Ger- 
man novel. It refuses to become an American play. 
Thus truth again triumphs, as it has a way of doing. 



THE POOR WORKING GIRL SUFFERS 
AGAIN 

"Common Clay" — Republic Theater, 
August 26, IQ15 

Mr. Cleves Kinkead, while a special student in 
Prof. Baker's course in playwriting, won the Craig 
prize with a drama called "Common Clay," which 
was produced in the spring of 1915 by Mr. Craig's 
stock company at the Castle Square Theater, in Bos- 
ton. Slightly altered during the summer, it has now 
been produced at the Republic Theater in New 
York, with a verse from Kipling misquoted on the 
program. 

In this play, Mr. Kinkead teed up a fine idea and 

got off a good drive which, however, developed a 

slice into a bunker. He made a splendid recovery 

to the edge of the green, but flubbed his chip shot, 

and then ended disastrously by taking three putts. 

He might possibly have done a stroke better with 

some other manager than A. H. Woods for a caddie, 

but anyway you look at it he isn't down to par yet. 

no 



THE POOR WORKING GIRL in 

(We write in this fashion because The New York 
Tribune has made its baseball reporter the dramatic 
critic. We see no reason why golf shouldn't be 
recognized as well.) 

"Common Clay" has two great assets to popular- 
ity — the long arm of coincidence and a ruined fe- 
male. The public dearly loves them both. It has 
one asset to more serious consideration — it pleads for 
the proper satisfaction of the normal instinct of 
youth to get out and have a good time. In that plea 
we feel that the author was perfectly sincere. In 
his attempt to weave that plea into a stage narrative, 
however, his sincerity frequently ran amuck of prob- 
lems beyond his skill, and the result is, for the most 
part, in spite of all the good words said for it, a 
rather false and artificial melodrama, with a few 
very curious perversions of ethical fundamentals. 

The play opens in the "reception room" of the 
Fullerton house in "any large American city in the 
middle west." The Fullertons are giving a recep- 
tion. They are very rich. Mrs. Fullerton lets it 
be known that she has trouble in keeping domestics. 
A look at the wall paper provided by the scenic artist 
convinces us of the reason. Anyhow, she has just 
acquired a new domestic, Ellen Neal, played by Jane 
Cowl. Some twenty years or more before the play 



112 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

opened Mrs. Fullerton also had acquired a son, who 
in turn acquired a taste for — well, for domestics. 
He is at home just now from college, where we hear 
he is an athlete. (All college men are athletes in 
the drama, which is why they -are played by soft 
looking actors like Orme Caldara.) He learns from 
another man at the party that Ellen hasn't been 
"straight" in the past, so, of course, that eases his 
conscience and he proceeds to make love to her. 

Act II, nearly a year later. There has been a 
baby — a boy. Ellen demands that he have his 
share of young Fullerton's fortune, even if he doesn't 
bear his father's name. The old family friend, 
Judge Filson, is called in as counsel. Of course, you 
must realize that John Mason plays this part. 
Dear, dear, the matter must be kept out of court, 
to avoid a scandal on the fair name of the Fuller- 
tons. The judge faintly suggests to Fullerton pere 
that son Hugh might offer to marry the girl. The 
reason he has this absurd idea, it seems, is because 
years ago he, Judge Filson, loved a daughter of joy, 
and she, when about to become a mother, drowned 
herself rather than hamper his career. This has 
tended to soften his sympathies — as well it might.. 
The case does get into court, however, and the court 
scene makes the "big act," for in it Ellen tells why 



THE POOR WORKING GIRL 113 

and how she first went wrong. The story she tells 
is very human and true, and it is a pity the author 
had not been literary artist enough to tell it in Ellen's 
own language, and not a language made up of street 
slang, "fine writing" and special pleading mixed in 
equal parts. 

Then comes in the long arm of coincidence. Lo 
and behold, the judge's mistress gave birth to a 
daughter before she died, and Ellen is the daughter ! 
In the name of Melpomene, why? So there could 
be a father and daughter scene*? The judge, broken 
in spirit, overwhelmed with emotion, tries to tell 
Ellen he is her father, and she thinks he is trying to 
make love to her. That is a good moment. Then 
she realizes the truth of what he says, and from there 
on the play falls into the feeblest of convention- 
alized situation. The judge sends her to Paris to 
study, and in ten years she returns a radiant prima 
donna, and falls into the arms of the penitent Hugh 
Fullerton, who has never ceased to wonder where she 
is, and has joined the Progressive party. This is 
told in an epilogue, which for unadulterated mush 
and sentimental mawkishness and falsity very nearly 
takes the cake. 

It is conceivable that if the play had been done 
by a more intelligent manager a certain amount of 
its present crudeness could have been rubbed off. 



114 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

Since the managers brand their names all over the 
programs, we feel no hesitation in giving them a 
share of praise or blame, and, of course, A. H. Woods 
is not the man to put on a play with a serious pur- 
pose. Woods, doubtless, saw in the play a raw 
appeal. But this raw appeal here is tempered by 
the author's purpose and pity, so that it to a con- 
siderable extent fails of Mr. Woods's intention. 
''Common Clay" remains a curious mixture of the 
good and the bad — at times almost a fine success, at 
times merely a creaking melodrama. 

Miss Cowl gives a fairly good performance, 
though in a curiously monotonous and single key. 
Of course John Mason can handle his role without 
trouble. The "hero" is played by Orme Caldara, 
a poor choice. In the early acts he should look like 
a healthy young animal of two and twenty, and his 
sin with Ellen should be as much the fault of nature 
as of himself. Mr. Caldara plays the role like a 
typical seducer. He puts a blush where no blush 
should lurk — or is it a leer? 

If Mr. Kinkead is going to continue writing 
sociological dramas, however, he will need more than 
a better cast and a wiser manager. He will need 
to learn that the simple problems of good and evil 



THE POOR WORKING GIRL 115 

are enough to make a play of, without dragging in 
ridiculous coincidences, and that the only eloquence 
on the stage is the eloquence of natural speech, spon- 
taneously flowing from the characters. 



'THE UNCHASTENED WOMAN," A REAL 
CHARACTER STUDY 

"The Unchastened Woman" — jgth Street Theater, 
October g, 191 $ 

To realize what a childish and trivial thing our 
drama has been, in the main, for many moons, one 
has only to see Louis K. Anspacher's new play 
"The Unchastened Woman," which was produced 
in Los Angeles last year by Morosco, and has now 
been brought into New York by that enterprising 
manager. The very fact that "The Unchastened 
Woman" is in no sense a great play; that it is re- 
markable neither for wit and charming narration, 
nor cleverness of construction, nor depth of emo- 
tional appeal, makes it all the better a test of our 
dramatic triviality. For, in spite of its lack of any 
superlative qualities, the spectator, nevertheless, 
finds himself watching and listening with a vast 
sense of relief that here, at last, is a play which says 
something, and something about people. 

In short, "The Unchastened Woman" is a char- 
116 



"THE UNCHASTENED WOMAN" 117 

acter study — and if you will go through the painful 
process of recalling to mind all the American plays 
you've witnessed in the last few years, how many 
can you honestly say reached the dignity of a charac- 
ter study? Yes, there was "Romance" — we thought 
of that, too. There was "The Easiest Way." There 
was "The Concert." No fair — we are talking about 
American plays. "The Concert" was Teutonic. 
"Potash and Perlmutter" ? Well, have it your own 
way, but that isn't what we mean by character study. 
These two gentlemen were genre portraits, perhaps. 
They were what the average actor means by a "char- 
acter part." Oh, well, the hour is late. Of course, 
there was "The Girl With the Green Eyes," by 
Fitch, and the heroine of his best play, "The Truth" 
— but poor Fitch has been dead these many years and 
we who called him a butterfly would now be dis- 
posed to call him something considerably more bulky. 
At least, he was big enough to put real characters 
on the stage and devote a play to depicting their 
insides. The best some of the soaring eagles who 
have followed him can do is to grind out farces and 
melodramas, and crown G. M. Cohan king. 

Mr. Anspacher (who is the husband of Katheryn 
Kidder) in his new play has followed in Fitch's foot- 
steps, to the extent of making his heroine his chief 



n8 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

concern and picking her from the ranks of the idle 
and frivolous urban society. His play is centered 
around this character study; it is the unfolding of 
this character and the effects wrought by this char- 
acter on other people which make the interest for 
the spectator. The character chosen being an inter- 
esting (if unusual) one, and the exposition being 
conducted in the main with skill and fidelity to 
nature, the comedy has the dignity of real dramatic 
literature, and, of course, it is popular. We say "of 
course," because a good play is almost always pop- 
ular when it is a clear-cut character study. 

The Unchastened Woman of the title is a certain 
Mrs. Caroline Knollys, wife of Hubert Knollys, and 
she is perhaps Mr. Anspacher's idea of what Hedda 
Gabler would be like if Hedda lived in East Sixty- 
first street, New York. That, of course, is hardly 
fair either to Mr. Anspacher or Hedda — but the idea 
we wish to convey is that he has attempted the study 
of a woman who is incapable of being a true and 
normal wife because of her essentially selfish and 
trivial nature, and who is equally incapable of being 
an ultimately unfaithful wife because of her lack of 
real passions, and still more her fear of the shell of 
convention. This feline female he has endowed 
with a kind of perpetual youth, a purring charm, a 



"THE UNCHASTENED WOMAN" 119 

dominant will, a pretty wit, and the manners of her 
luxurious class. Here is meat for the actress, and 
the promise of trouble enough to keep a story on 
the jump. 

Of course, the trouble comes through Caroline's 
attempts to win another man away from his wife. 
He is an architect, and she wishes to emancipate his 
soul, so she tells him. What she wants to do, of 
course, is to make as much mischief as she can with- 
out herself being scorched. Once, she caught her 
husband in actual unfaithfulness, and she has that 
whip over him. She herself has never gone that 
far — and they live in New York State. Therefore 
she keeps the protection of his name. 

The play would be much more interesting if Caro- 
line had picked out a more interesting victim than 
Lawrence Sanbury, struggling architect. He is, as 
her own husband says, pretty feeble game. Yet the 
author, by choosing him, has nevertheless been able 
to make use of certain phases of New York life, 
which, so far as we recall, have hitherto lacked ex- 
pression. For instance, Lawrence's wife is one of 
those strong, energetic, idealistic, radical young 
women who just now are so numerous in New York 
(and elsewhere) and are often actually accomplish- 
ing so much in organization of the garment workers, 



120 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

in industrial reform, in charities and even in liter- 
ature. To throw into strong contrast such a woman 
as this and such a product of the parasitic rich as 
Caroline Knollys is to create instantly a living, vital 
dramatic situation. Moreover, Caroline would have 
Lawrence get on in his profession, as so many archi- 
tects and artists do get on, by kotowing and boot- 
licking to the rich — his wife would have him get on 
by her ideals instead, by being uncompromisingly 
himself. When the play begins, it is she who is 
earning the family living, and they dwell in a 
"model tenement" on the East Side, among the rad- 
icals and the realities. When Caroline comes to 
this tenement, again we have a striking contrast 
created. There is no question but Mr. Anspacher 
has chosen sound material for his play, worth while 
material, true material. 

We do not propose to attempt a narrative of the 
plot. It is sufficient to say that Caroline goes a little 
too far with Lawrence, evidently because for once 
something approximating a human passion stirs in 
her, and her husband is able to get a whip hand over 
her — based, to be sure, on evidence he knows really 
does not mean actual guilt, but which would ruin the 
conventional reputation she needs for her worldly 
position. With that aid, he and Mrs. Sanbury be- 



"THE UNCHASTENED WOMAN" 121 

tween them save Lawrence from her clutches, though 
by this time Mrs. Sanbury has realized that her hus- 
band is hardly in her class for manhood, and you 
wonder, rather, whether Mr. Anspacher really ex- 
pects you to accept their final reconciliation as a 
happy ending. Meanwhile, after humiliating Caro- 
line by forcing her publicly to apologize for certain 
things she has said, the rest of the characters have 
to see her make a final exit quite unchastened, with 
a smiling and rapierlike innuendo on her lips. She 
isn't regenerated. She is never sympathetic. Un- 
like Hedda, she isn't even tragic. Yet she is the 
heroine and pivot of the play — and it is packing 
the theater. 

The part is played by Miss Emily Stevens, and 
it is quite the best performance she has ever given. 
To be sure, it is quite the best part she has ever had. 
She talks more than ever like her relative, Mrs. 
Fiske. And, too, she is allowing certain mannerisms 
of facial contortion, and the like, to set. Neverthe- 
less, she has conceived the character as a whole, and 
executed her portrait with minute fidelity. The 
charm of the woman, the vampire allure, the worldly 
ease, the ready wit, the restless, neurasthenic vacancy 
of life, the selfish cruelty, are all indicated surely, 
easily and vividly. If the performance has one 



122 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

fault more than another, it is a fault also inherent 
in the play — the note of a real passion for Lawrence 
is not clearly enough indicated. The play is lackc 
ing here, and Miss Stevens's art also is lacking in 
that suggestion. In this degenerate age of acting, 
however, it is wisest to be grateful for a true char- 
acter study, and not cavil. 

Others in an excellently trained cast who deserve 
mention are H. Reeves Smith, as Caroline's middle- 
aged, ironically humorous and politely worldly hus- 
band, and Miss Christine Norman as the wife of the 
young architect, who wears flat-heeled boots be- 
cause she insists on the union label and is a woman 
of poise, intellect, deep feeling, and profound ideals. 
Miss Norman's performance is, in its way, a gem of 
quiet force and suggestiveness. The mere physical 
contrast between the two women, as they appear on 
the stage, vividly paints the theme. 

The dialogue of the play, contrary to what we 
might expect from some of Mr. Anspacher's pub- 
lished works, is not verbose, and it is colloquial with- 
out losing dignity and gracefulness. All in all, he 
is to be congratulated on a sound piece of work well 
produced and acted, and most deservingly popular. 



THE EASY LOT OF THE STAGE HERO 

"Hit-the-Trail Holliday" — As tor Theater, 
September ij, 191 5 

One of the British scientists of the nineteenth cen- 
tury — Grant Allen, was it not? — said that a man 
with a first-class mind never wanted to go to "the 
serious drama" of an evening. He wanted the com- 
plete relaxation of the music hall. The serious 
drama, said this scientist, is for middle-class intel- 
lects — his idea no doubt being that reality is of so 
much more importance than the usual little apings 
of it in the playhouse that the man who sees reality 
with large vision can only be bored in the theater. 

This is an extreme point of view, but it is one most 
of us have now and again shared. Against the stu- 
pendous reality of the Great War now raging in 
Europe, for example, how petty, how futile, how al- 
most insulting the war plays of the hour seem; yes, 
even "Moloch," though it is head and shoulders 
above the rest. A little harmless flash-light powder 

exploded, the "props" knocked out from under some 

123 



124 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

pasteboard, a few actors falling down and playing 
dead — and this in the face of the red shambles of 
the Marne ! The vaudeville performer balancing a 
billiard ball on the end of his nose is at least doing 
something that von Hindenberg probably can't. 
His achievement is real. 

Nor is it only at war plays that we sometimes 
know this feeling toward the stage; nor do we have 
to be "first class minds" to know it. Darwin 
couldn't endure Shakespeare, which may have been 
rather a sign that even first-class minds have their 
limitations. The middle-class mind which can en- 
joy Shakespeare has just so much advantage. Yet 
even the middle-class mind experiences its periods of 
annoyance at the puerilities of drama; only it asks 
that the drama rather measure up to Shakespeare 
than down to the music halls. Even the middle- 
class mind knows moments of doubt, when it seems 
as if the conventions which rule in the playhouse are 
really too childish to endure, when it seems as if 
popular appeal in the drama is based on something 
so far removed from reality that it isn't worthy of 
attention. Perhaps a critic shouldn't make these 
confessions, but there are times when it is impossible 
not to. 

Consider the case of George Cohan's new play, 



EASY LOT OF THE STAGE HERO 125 

"Hit-the-Trail Holliday." Mr. Cohan, we are told, 
is a veritable superman in knowing what the public 
wants, and giving it to them. In fact, he knows 
what the public wants when the public doesn't, and 
makes 'em want his brand! Billy Holliday, the 
hero of the play, is a barkeeper. But he is more 
than that. He is a Sandow, a Romeo, a Demos- 
thenes, a Lloyd George, a Dwight L. Moody, and a 
George Ade. In short, he is a Cohanesque hero. 
To be sure, we have to accept his possession of the 
attributes of all these great men largely on faith, 
but how gladly we do so ! Externally, Billy Holli- 
day doesn't even look like a bar-keeper. He looks 
like a prosperous young actor from the Lambs Club. 
But we are assured that he is a bar-keeper who gets 
$100 a week for mixing drinks. We assume that 
he is a Romeo, because by the second act the min- 
ister's daughter is letting him hold her hand. We 
assume that he is a Sandow because he pulls the 
villain all over the stage by the nose. We are con- 
fident that he is a mixture of Demosthenes and Neil 
Dow because between Acts I and II he makes a mag- 
nificent temperance oration which gets reported with 
six-column scarehead lines in the New York 
Tribune. That he is Lloyd George is readily proved 
by the ease with which he quells a riot of brewery 



126 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

employees and gives them all a dollar a day more 
to work in a new temperance drink factory, which 
he organizes over night and makes a howling success 
in a week. 

How magnificently easy it all is! How every 
situation, every character, in the play "feeds up" 
this hero! Everything comes his way. Opposi- 
tion 4 ? Pff — a snap of the finger, a dental smile, a 
slang phrase — and it is crushed, obliterated, wiped 
out of existence, and our hero goes on his triumphal 
way. He never really has to fight, he never really 
has to possess the weapons of brain and heart to 
fight with. He is a stage hero. Events and people 
all feed him up. He basks in an eternal spot light, 
with a wreath upon his brow. 

That is the kind of part an actor dearly loves to 
play, and we assume it is the kind of part the public 
dearly loves to see played. Sometimes, on witness- 
ing such a performance, even the middle-class mind 
may be forgiven a preference for the vaudeville per- 
former who balances a billiard ball upon his nose. 
He is really overcoming opposition. The firm de- 
termination of a billiard ball not to remain on the 
end of the human nose is something not easily to 
be altered. The man who can conquer this oppo- 
sition is at least endowed with steady nerves and 



EASY LOT OF THE STAGE HERO ::- 

infinite persistence. Nobody feeds him up. Hii 
struggle 5 ~::e like lie struggle :: life luel: 

rerliijf. izzt: ill. 1: ':;. 5 ir^u: :c ibis — ±i: ie 
public doesn't really want to see life itself in die 

rliyhcufe, :_: smelling ii difere::: if possible. 
■Ink retaining die external semblance to make it 

l:ok ii :: life nigh: re ihi: ~iy. Penirs ihe 
sieiiii "i: ieil: iii.t ^riih reilid.es. :el: if. 111 



right instil:: — right, at least, bam die point : 
hieitiieil su::ess W; -;ili ill .Ike :■; re ie::ef 
Tie iCl£z.i iuue: z i:s himself :c sleei 7' "~- : ~f 
he ztigh: rcfsirlj i: ills tcurse :r. even fours 
i J;tuif:i :i:e utiie it ever. iitees mi men 
next day wrote a story about it.) We all lore 
dream of wealth acquired at a stroke and fame 
imieveol :t some meitituli: ie:f;rmm:e Arm. 
;ii: ii lie golf iuue: z:t? ;i:e :i i blue :u:m rill 
;: ■ long hole me under mm 5; life mums us ill by 
..:.: men :h:;— irm :lie limelight :•: m :i 11 
rim imievemem. I: keers :he dune: mum! golf. 






in i ne 



DON JUAN REDIVIVUS 

"The Great Lover" — Longacre Theater, 
November 10, 1915 

The Hattons, of Chicago, collaborating with Leo 
Ditrichstein, have dramatized the male opera star, 
the great tenor — only in this case he is the great bary- 
tone, the Don Giovanni of his generation. The 
original Don came to his end at the hands of the 
commander's ghost; but this reincarnation, called 
Jean Paurel, comes to his end merely by losing his 
voice, and his tragedy is that he faces a long life of 
recollections of past performances, rather than an- 
ticipations of performances to come. We refer, of 
course, to performances in the court of love no less 
than on the stage of opera. The play is called "The 
Great Lover," and the leading part is taken by Mr. 
Ditrichstein himself. The production was an in- 
stantaneous success and will likely be in New York 
for the balance of the winter. 

Three factors contribute to the chances of success 

for a play with this theme. 

128 



DON JUAN REDIVIVUS 129 

First, the stars of the music world, especially of 
opera, seem always to live a life apart, and with them 
we unconsciously always associate the glamour of 
great auditoriums alive with lights and jewels, the 
throb of orchestras, the peal of song. They are pre- 
destined characters of romance. 

Second, the tragedy of the middle-aged artist, the 
failing of voice, the vanishing of charm, is a tragedy 
which appeals peculiarly to the interest and the com- 
passion of laymen, especially of the gentler sex. It 
is a tragedy for any woman to find the wrinkles 
round her eyes, and she knows how keen a tragedy 
it must be for the beautiful actress to realize on some 
gray dawn that she is no longer beautiful, that her 
day is over. Perhaps there are more of us males 
than admit it who know the pangs of sorrow at our 
failure any longer to attract the female smile, and 
we can understand the tragedy of Don Giovanni — 
we who in our secret hearts have always envied him ! 

Third, a play about the opera, with the scene laid 
in New York, with a set reproducing exactly the 
director's room in the Metropolitan Opera house, 
with the leading character called Paurel (one letter 
changed would make it Maurel, who was the great- 
est impersonator of the Don in his generation), and 
with much of the acting duplicating what we have 



130 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

read about the rows between singers, the trials and 
tribulations of directors in dealing with these tem- 
peramental children — such a play is sure to attract 
curiosity in New York. It seems, somehow, pe- 
culiarly our own. Romantic though it is, it answers 
our need for a play about ourselves. 

So "The Great Lover," granted a good cast, a 
good director, and a bit of skill in the writing, was 
about as sure fire as anything can be in the theater. 
It got the good cast, it got one of our best stage man- 
agers in Sam Forrest, general stage director for 
Cohan & Harris, and it is written with skill and 
briskness. The result is a packed house at every 
performance. 

The first act is the liveliest, and is largely given 
over to a picture of the troubles of the manager of 
the opera house. Singers to right of him, singers to 
left of him, conductors behind him and in front of 
him, volley and sputter. The major portion of the 
drama occurs in the second act, in Paurel's dressing 
room between acts of "Don Giovanni." Paurel is 
in love with Ethel Warren, a young American girl, 
a soprano in the company. She, is turn, is really in 
love with Carlo Sonino, a young American-born 
barytone, understudy to the great Paurel. But 
Sonino is jealous of her, and in a fit of pique she says 



DON JUAN REDIVIVUS 131 

she will marry Paurel. But Sabittini, Italian so- 
prano, an old flame of Paurel, is to be reckoned with. 
In the excitement of the scene she causes, Paurel 
shouts and storms — and suddenly his voice leaves 
him. At the end of the act he stands sobbing by 
the door while his youthful understudy is heard out 
on the stage, singing gloriously the music of the 
world's most glorious opera. 

In the last act Paurel learns that he will never 
sing again. He also realizes that Miss Warren does 
not really love him, and he makes the one sacrifice 
he has ever made in his pampered life, and gives 
her up. Then he is left alone with his old servant 
and his love letters — twenty years of love letters, 
catalogued by seasons. The old servant gets them 
out. They are his version of Leporello's list ! Yet 
the telephone rings at the end, and it is a woman. 
He is making a date with her as the curtain falls. 
Thus should Don Giovanni pass — game to the finish. 

Mr. Ditrichstein's performance of Paurel is super- 
ficially a vivid characterization, touched with whim- 
sical eccentricity, full of childlike vanities, delic- 
iously Latin in its suavity and Latin, too, in its gusts 
of temper. It is superficially so vivid, indeed, that 
perhaps many people will not realize that it is lack- 
ing in genuine romantic charm and consequently 



132 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

lacking in what should be the closing note of the 
play — pathos. That the pathos would be ironic 
does not alter our statement. When we pause to 
think how Mansfield would have played that closing 
act, we can see Mr. Ditrichstein's limitations. We 
may well pause, too, to reflect how Mansfield would 
have looked in his costume of the Don — dressed 
probably more as Renaud dressed him, than in the 
conventional doublet and hose — Mansfield with a 
full if oddly stiff romantic swagger, with a style free 
from all taint of the finicky, with gestures that were 
not timid but seemed to sweep with the sweep of the 
orchestral rhythm. It is a limitation of Mr. Dit- 
richstein that he can not be truly romantic nor 
pathetic, and that he can not quite measure up to the 
grand style of an operatic hero. Since his perform- 
ance, which is indeed a notable one, is now being 
hailed as a supremely great one, it is wise to make 
these reservations in the interest of truth. It is not 
a great performance, any more than the play is a 
great play. It is the kind of performance our stage 
ought to be able to show half a dozen times a season 
— but, alas, in recent years doesn't furnish more than 
once in every two or three seasons. 

In such a play as this, where so many of the char- 
acters must look foreign and splutter in German, 






DON JUAN REDIVIVUS 133 

French and Italian, naturally the members of the 
cast have been chosen for their fitness thus to splutter. 
Where all the Italians came from we do not know, 
but they seem to be quite as good actors as anybody 
could wish for. Miss Beverly Sitgreaves, one of the 
best players our native stage boasts, takes the part 
of the Italian prima donna, however, and gives a 
vivid and delightfully temperamental and vindictive 
performance. She could not be more in the picture 
if her name were really Sabittini. 

The play is prefaced by the immortal overture to 
"Don Giovanni," to which nobody pays the slightest 
attention. 



MRS. FISKE AMONG THE MENNONITES 

"Erstwhile Susan" Gaiety Theater, 
January 18, igi6 

The return to the New York stage of the most 
brilliant actress now playing in the English tongue 
attracted an exceptional audience to the Gaiety 
Theater, and this audience was rewarded by an eve- 
ning of exceptional enjoyment. Future audiences 
may not have quite so good a time, because that first 
assemblage was made up so largely of other players 
— and it takes a player to appreciate to the full, per- 
haps, the extraordinary art of Mrs. Fiske. More- 
over, there was in the air that night a rare feeling of 
expectancy before she appeared and a warm glow of 
welcome after she came out, which made the evening 
memorable. Mrs. Fiske has not looked slimmer and 
trimmer in many a year, and not in a long while 
has she acted with such abundant vitality and such 
infectious good spirits. 

She has had better parts to play. Her present 
role really makes very little demand upon her powers, 

134 



AMONG THE MENNONITES 135 

though it is doubtful if any other actress in the 
country could have triumphed in it, except possibly 
May Irwin, who, of course, would have played it 
quite differently. What, however, is a slight de- 
mand on Mrs. Fiske's powers may be a fatal drain 
on many another's. The firsthand the last, impres- 
sion one takes away from "Erstwhile Susan," her 
new play, is the impression of mastership. Stronger 
than any impression of the story, any impression of 
the character Mrs. Fiske plays, is this sense of a 
personality vibrant with vitality, of a mind marvel- 
ously alert, of a voice trained to every shade of feel- 
ing and expression, of a technical mastery of all the 
tricks of the trade which enables this player to pick 
up a part, a play, and carry it smilingly off on her 
little shrugging shoulders. The players who give us 
this sense in the theater now are so few, their appear- 
ance so infrequent, and, moreover, we have been so 
satiated of late with the "silent drama," that Mrs. 
Fiske swept back, after three years of absence, like 
a cleansing wind, and the grateful audience on that 
opening night simply rose to her joyously and un- 
critically, and actually cheered. It was very much 
as if a crowd of music lovers who had for years 
heard nothing but ragtime ditties on a phonograph 
were suddenly face to face with Melba in her prime. 



136 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

The play Mrs. Fiske has elected to reappear in is 
a curious little concoction, made by Marian de Forest 
from a novel of Pennsylvania Dutch life by Helen 
Martin, called "Barnabetta." The Pennsylvania 
Dutch are comparatively virgin material for the 
American dramatist, and doubtless a folk comedy 
as quaint as "Hobson's Choice" could have been 
made about them. We are told that it was to be 
found in the novel. But either the dramatist or 
Mrs. Fiske has elected to follow another course. In- 
stead of writing in a vein of folk comedy, the drama- 
tist has written in a vein of burlesque, gentle bur- 
lesque which preserves character outlines, to be sure, 
but which is burlesque, none the less. In other 
words, the play is not written in the key of the 
modern Manchester school or Irish school, but rather 
in the key of the American character comedies of an 
earlier day. This would be a great pity if anybody 
but Mrs. Fiske were the star. As it is, however, we 
are inclined to think it was the wise course. Mrs. 
Fiske was out for a romp, and when she is out for 
a romp and has the license a touch of burlesque gives 
her (as in "Mrs. Bumpstead-Leigh"), there is no 
living player who can furnish such delightful, such 
side-splitting entertainment. So "Erstwhile Susan" 
is dashed with American caricature, it is reminiscent 



AMONG THE MENNONITES 137 

of the Florences, it has a primitive native tang. 

The part Mrs. Fiske plays is that of an elocution- 
ist from Iowa, a quaint creature who lectures on 
woman's rights, bursts out into frequent quotations 
from Shakespeare and other poets, dresses like a 
freak and has, in short, a somewhat ridiculous self- 
made "culture." It is ridiculous, but it is touching, 
too. The woman's heart is so good, her ways so 
brisk, her mind so alert, her sympathies so warm. 
Her sympathies are so warm, in fact, that she an- 
swers a matrimonial advertisement, and comes to 
Reinhartz, Pa., to marry a Pennsylvania Dutchman 
who has killed two wives already with overwork, 
solely that she may mother his poor, overworked 
daughter Barnabetta, and incidentally bring the up- 
lift to the other down-trodden females of this com- 
munity. 

Mrs. Fiske enters on the scene after the character 
of Barnaby Dreary, the Dutchman, is established, 
and we have seen the slavery of his drudge of a 
daughter, and the masculine selfishness of his two 
lunking sons. The posture of circumstances may be 
far fetched — who cares? It gets Mrs. Fiske into 
this household, and any reader with a spark of imag- 
ination can gather the fun which ensues as she pro- 
ceeds on her taming and uplifting process. It is a 



138 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

performance of extraordinary comic brilliance, done 
in bold, strong outline, and its appeal is heightened 
by the fact that Mrs. Fiske has put opposite her, in 
the character of Barnaby Dreary, John Cope, an 
accomplished and forceful actor. She is one of those 
wise players who knows that a performance does not 
really shine by contrast, in a poor cast, but by com- 
petition, in a good cast. The climax of fun is 
reached at the curtain of the second act, when Bar- 
naby gets a whip to beat poor Barnabetta, and Mrs. 
Fiske, to his utter amazement, snatches it from him, 
throws it through the window, and then hurls at his 
head these astounding words — "You damn Dutch- 
man !" 

Mrs. Fiske is too fine an actress not to create a 
real character out of the Iowa elocutionist. She is 
consistent, and she brings out with consummate ease, 
when necessary, the lurking woman's tenderness. 
But the part, like the play, is none the less exagger- 
ated, delicately burlesqued. It is a sort of comic 
bravura, and executed with all the brilliance of a 
Melba singing trills, a Kreisler with his magic bow. 
The lovers of acting in America — and the movies 
have not destroyed them all — will flock to this per- 
formance, and they will be richly repaid. 



SECTION II 
FOREIGN PLAYS 



A LITTLE SIDE-STREET IN ARCADY 

"Pomander Walk" — W attack's Theater, 
December 20, igio 

A. B. Walkley said of "Quality Street," eight 
years ago, "it makes us, like St. Augustine in his 
youth, in love with love. It has laid us up in laven- 
der." In much the same words might the critic 
write to-day of "Pomander Walk," by Louis N. 
Parker, now visible at Wallack's Theater in New 
York. That play, too, is of the period and the per- 
suasion of Jane Austen. It is King George's Eng- 
land preserved in lavender and rose leaves for a cen- 
tury. 

Not, of course, that we quite agree that either "Po- 
mander Walk" or "Quality Street" makes us in love 
with love exactly after the manner of St. Augustine 
in his youth! The search for literary illustrations 
to adorn one's criticisms sometimes leads the critic 
into unfortunate suggestion. Nor can we quite 
truthfully say that "Pomander Walk" has laid us 
away in lavender. Lavender there is, but mingled 

141 



142 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

with its odor is the scent of the old Admiral Sir 
Peter's good black 'baccy. We trust the ladies will 
not object; indeed, we fancy that a whiff of the mas- 
culine is not amiss in Arcady. But, like "Quality 
Street," "Pomander Walk" puts forth the spell of 
an old-world charm, the romance of a vanished day; 
like Mr. Barrie's work, it breathes the charity and 
simplicity and mellow, merry sympathy of a sweet- 
souled author; like the old three-decker in Kipling's 
poem, it's "taking tired people to the islands of the 
blest." 

Yet Mr. Parker's work is strangely deficient in 
what the scholastic gentlemen who discover the laws 
of the drama and embalm them in books would tell 
us are the essentials of a good play. It has the 
slightest of plots. The curtains do not descend upon 
climaxes of the action. There are no climaxes in 
the action. It is as quiet in movement as the works 
of Jane Austen herself, and, though it does develop 
skillfully and surely its little thread of story, it con- 
quers not by that, but by its static qualities of charm 
and sympathy. It conquers because, in an exquisite 
pictorial setting, it shows us a group of charming, 
old-worldly people, lets us hear their simple talk, 
look into their simple breasts, and, ultimately, into 



LITTLE SIDE-STREET IN ARCADY 143 

the tender, simple heart of Louis N. Parker. Before 
such a revelation the relative importance of "the 
well-made play" shrinks to insignificance. Charm 
may cheerfully break all rules. Nothing happens 
in "Pomander Walk" — yet everything happens. 
Men and women love and laugh and are happy. 
The glow arises of romance. Life is sweeter for the 
picture. The stage becomes more endeared to us 
for the memory of this play. We hail it as the 
most important contribution of the season. 

Pomander Walk (the very name is fragrant!) is, 
according to the programme, "Out Chiswick way, 
halfway to Fairyland." It comprises a little block 
of five houses in the pretty Georgian style, facing on 
a tree-shaded walk and flanked by the river. Be- 
yond the river you see the English fields. Little 
wrought-iron grills fence off each tiny garden plot 
before the houses. Ivy clambers over the doors. 
The period is 1805; the costumes those of the Em- 
pire. The first house is inhabited by the Admiral 
Sir Peter Antrobus, who lost an eye with Nelson. 
He is a bluff, peppery, tender, lovable old chap, who 
has great trouble suppressing his nautical vocabulary 
in the presence of ladies. He has his own ideas of 
humor. When he wishes to cheer some one up he 



144 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

says : "Let me tell you something funny — how I lost 
my eye!" He is pursued by the Widow Pamela 
Poskett, who lives next door with her cat. 

In the third house live the Misses Ruth and Bar- 
bara Pennymint, with Barbara's parrot, Samuel 
Johnson — "named after the great lexicographer, you 
know" — and their lodger, a young violinist, who is 
too shy to tell Barbara that he loves her. In the 
fourth house lives a pompous, Pickwickian person, 
Jerome Brooke-Hoskyn, Esq., with his family and 
a lodger. Now, Brooke-Hoskyn has added the 
"Brooke." In reality he is a retired butler. His 
fine airs and pompous assumption of acquaintance 
with noble gentlemen are a bluff to dazzle the 
simple souls of Pomander Walk. Yet, for the life 
of you, you can't wish that he be found out; you 
rejoice when his secret is kept. He adds a broad, 
sturdy touch of Dickens to the Jane Austen atmos- 
phere of the piece. 

In the last house dwells a widow, Mme. Lucie La- 
chesnais, and her lovely daughter Marjolaine. Nor 
must we forget the Eyesore, a ragged intruder who 
continually sits fishing on the river bank and never 
lands a fish. 

And the story? The play progresses with simple, 
pleasant, human talk, tinged with merriment, and 



LITTLE SIDE-STREET IN ARCADY 145 

not, as in "Quality Street," attempting to reproduce 
the stilted rhetoric of the period. Perhaps for such 
literary subtlety Mr. Parker does not feel himself 
fitted. We see Marjolaine fall into the wonder of 
first love with young Lieutenant John Sayle, R. N., 
who comes to visit his old commander, the Admiral, 
and him into the wonder of love for her. We learn 
how his titled father once loved Marjolaine's mother, 
leaving her for a rich marriage at his father's desire, 
just as he now desires young Jack to do. We see 
the young lovers triumph gayly over parental oppo- 
sition and we watch their parents reunited in the 
autumn of their days. We learn how Barbara 
catches her shy fiddler by the aid of Samuel John- 
son, the loquacious. We see the old Admiral forced 
at last to strike his colors before the artillery of the 
Widow Poskett. We see Brooke-Hoskyn escape 
detection. And as the moon rises and the lamp- 
lighter puts out the lamps along Pomander Walk, 
leaving the lovers, old and young, grouped in its 
silvery rays, we see the Eyesore land a perch at last 
— a great, fat perch with shining scales. 

Of course, for such a play as this, fine acting is 
required, and fine stage management. It has re- 
ceived both. The author himself was the stage 
manager, and the choice of the company was left to 



146 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

him. George Giddens, a splendid actor of the "old 
school," who has played Tony Lumpkin in America 
in years past, plays the Admiral Sir Peter, and shows 
us how ripeness and training may raise an imper- 
sonation into rounded life. The author's daugh- 
ter, Miss Dorothy Parker, on the other hand, makes 
her very first stage appearance as Marjolaine, and 
shows us how natural talent and unspoiled naivete 
may contribute to a picture of youth and innocence. 
All the other players are good and enter with willing 
understanding into the idyllic mood of the comedy. 
You feel it is no perfunctory task they are perform- 
ing. In a play that breathes the spirit of love, they 
act with loving care. 

And some of us doubly rejoice that the play is 
presented at Wallack's Theater. In the raw new- 
ness of Broadway, Wallack's remains a landmark, 
dingy perhaps and overlarge, but haunted with mem- 
ories of the great comedian who gave it its name, 
linking us with the past, with an honorable tradition 
of dramatic art. Among the various elements which 
must co-operate to create charm in the playhouse the 
theater itself surely is one. The playwright is es- 
sential, the manager with a real love of his business, 
with something of the artist's devotion, the willing 
and skillful actors, the stage director with imagina- 



LITTLE SIDE-STREET IN ARCADY 147 

tion, taste and feeling. But the theater, too, is 
needed, where memories awake, as we enter the por- 
tal, of the vanished charm of other days, where our 
affection is roused and our fancies stirred in antici- 
pation. 

All these elements have been combined in the 
production of "Pomander Walk." To old theater- 
goers it can bring no sighs for "the days that are 
no more," for it breathes their very essence. For 
young theater-goers it can only make the present 
more delightful and the future more bright, for by 
making us in love with love, with life, it makes us 
thereby in love with the theater. It brings to the 
playhouse in New York what that playhouse so 
sorely needs, glamour and sweetness and charm. 



A LITTLE FLYER IN JOY 

"Hindle Wakes," Maxine Elliott's Theater, Dec. 
9, i9 12 

"Hindle Wakes" was for some weeks visible at 
Maxine Elliott's Theater — visible if not visited. It 
then departed to tour the country. This drama, by 
Stanley Houghton, is one of the genre productions of 
Miss Homiman's Manchester Theater, and is acted 
by players from her company, rehearsed by her 
stage manager. It offers, therefore, a very fair op- 
portunity to estimate something of the results Miss 
Homiman is achieving in the English mill city of 
Manchester, at first blush a rather sooty cradle, one 
would say, for the arts. 

We have nothing like Miss Homiman's repertory 
theater in America. Its nearest counterpart with 
which we are familiar is the Abbey Theater of Dub- 
lin; but, of course, there is less national spirit to the 
Manchester venture. Miss Homiman is not adver- 
tising an English revival, but simply trying to de- 
velop a repertory company in her city, and to 

148 



A LITTLE FLYER IN JOY 149 

encourage local playwrights. If somebody should 
start a repertory theater in Pittsburgh, and local 
playwrights there should have produced in it dramas 
about the Pennsylvania Dutch and life in the oil 
well and coal districts, we should have a fair an- 
alogy. 

"Hindle Wakes" is a tale of life among the weav- 
ers of Hindle, a Lancashire town, and it is written 
in Lancashire idiom, and spoken in Lancashire dia- 
lect. It is acted by a company who seem in some 
cases not very remotely removed from talented 
amateurs, with the simplicity of gesture and move- 
ment, the emphasis on text, characteristic of the 
Irish players from Dublin. Unfortunately, the 
text is much less attractive in sound than the dia- 
logue of Yeats and Synge. The stage management, 
too, is stiffer and more conventional. 

But that is far less important than the fact that 
the play has been written and produced at all. It 
does not happen to be so large and gripping a play 
as "Rutherford and Son," which is a piece of realism 
about a similar district of England, nor is it nearly 
so well acted as is "Rutherford and Son" by Norman 
McKinnel and his London professionals. But, none 
the less, "Hindle Wakes" has all the earmarks of 
local authenticity, its very stiffness of presentation 



150 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

but betokening its authentic local origin the more. 
What does that mean*? It means that the drama is 
alive in Manchester. It means that Manchester is 
not simply sitting back and taking what second com- 
pany crumbs are dropped now and again from the 
London table, but is able to write and produce 
dramas of its own, dramas good enough to send up to 
London, and even across the pond to New York. 
It means that the drama in Manchester, like the 
tariff, is a local issue. 

Think if that were the case in the United States ! 
Think of the cities we have, far from New York, 
which are at present utterly dependent on New York 
for their dramatic fare, and which have a rich local 
mine of material about them at present quite un- 
worked either because nobody has been developed to 
work it, or because it would not be palatable — sup- 
posedly — on Broadway! The real New England 
play, for example, has never been written. James 
A. Heme scratched the surface in "Shore Acres," but 
the "Way Down East" sort of by-gosh drama is no 
more New England realism than it is Chinese. 
Where is the Pittsburgh play*? Why isn't Meredith 
Nicholson writing the racy, homely comedy and ro- 
mance of his beloved Indianapolis and its surround- 
ing country, for a repertory theater there, where the 



A LITTLE FLYER IN JOY 151 

audiences would understand 4 ? Surely there is a 
drama in Charleston, S. C. ! We could multiply 
endlessly the opportunities. 

But, as matters stand, the dramatist must be able 
to come up to Broadway or Chicago (or now and 
again, at most, Boston and Los Angeles), with his 
wares, and he must be able to deliver goods which 
will "get across" on Broadway. Is it any wonder 
there is no authentic realism in our American genre 
plays? What, for instance, did Broadway know, or 
care, about the G. A. R. when Warfield produced 
"The Grand Army Man"? You have to go back 
into what Meredith Nicholson loves to call provin- 
cial America to find a general love for and under- 
standing of the G. A. R. Of course, George Ade's 
"College Widow" was a real genre comedy, even if 
exaggerated. His sense of fun was great enough to 
turn the trick. But he offers only the traditional 
proof of an exception. The fact remains that the 
theater is not a live issue in America, not a local 
issue, outside of two or three of our largest cities. 
Because this always has been so is no reason why it 
always should be so — as we seem to suppose. It al- 
ways had been so in Manchester till Miss Horniman 
came along. 

What will be the first American city to wake up? 



152 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

They all have stock companies playing two and three 
year old Broadway successes in the traditional stock 
manner. There isn't a real repertory theater in the 
whole land, nor half a dozen stock managers who 
ever produce a new play unless some New York 
manager pays them to do it. None of our stock com- 
panies has so much as dreamed of developing local 
playwrights. Isn't it stupid*? Isn't it, when you 
come to think the matter over, almost ridiculous? 
The whole nation needs a new declaration of theat- 
rical independence. 

But now about "Hindle Wakes." The charm of 
the play — for it has a distinct charm to all who 
possess sufficient imagination to enjoy a picture of 
a life foreign to their own — resides in the quiet and 
seemingly quite unexaggerated and authentic de- 
piction of the ideals and manners and habits of the 
Lancashire weavers. The story is extremely simple. 
Christopher Hawthorn is an old weaver, who is still 
a weaver, with a full-blooded and high-spirited 
daughter, Fanny, who is, like her father, a worker 
in the mills. But Christopher's old boyhood friend, 
Nathaniel Jeffcote, has risen from the loom to be the 
owner of the mill, and his boy Alan is thus in a social 
class above Fanny. We see here what money does 
for the second generation. 



A LITTLE FLYER IN JOY 153 

Well, during bank holiday — when Hindle holds 
its "wakes," Fanny goes off for a week-end holiday, 
and so does Alan. They meet, and spend the holi- 
days together. The fact is discovered by Fanny's 
parents. To their simple code, the only possible 
thing now is to have Alan marry Fanny. 

Christopher goes up to the house of his old friend 
Nathaniel and puts the case to that testy, canny, self- 
willed, but honest and fair-minded man. He is 
enraged, but agrees that Alan must marry Fanny, 
even though it means breaking off a match with an- 
other girl, daughter of a second mill owner, which 
would unite the two properties. 

Well, the subject is thrashed out from all sides, 
and we get an insight into these people's lives in the 
process — and then Fanny has her say. It's about 
time, she thinks! She won't marry Alan. She 
doesn't want Alan. She doesn't care anything about 
Alan. She was a passing fancy with him, just a 
lark, was she*? Men are built that way, are they? 
Well, he was just a passing fancy, a lark, with her, 
too! Women can be built that way, also! When 
she marries she proposes to get a man, she does, and 
of her own picking. 

And Fanny has her way. We must admit that 
she has the audience's sympathy. It certainly 



154 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

wasn't going to mend matters to marry her off to 
Alan, and somehow there was a force of character 
in the girl as played by Miss Emilie Polini which 
made you sure she would come out all right after 
this little flyer in joy. Naturally, it was all some- 
thing of a snap for Alan, as his fiancee forgave him. 
But maybe that is realistic, too. The fiancee wasn't 
a new woman, like Fanny, and she followed the easy 
code of old-fashioned forgiveness. 

The theme of the play is not very new, then, nor 
perhaps important, in spite of the supposition in 
some quarters that Fanny's outburst of belated self- 
respect is a great blow for Feminism. What is im- 
portant is the faithful, illuminating disclosures of a 
race of people, a state of society, in a corner of Eng- 
land — of their speech, their habits, their ideals. Any 
such faithful disclosure is always important and of 
interest. This one is doubly so, because it was made 
possible by the Manchester repertory theater, and 
so shows us that similar disclosures might be made 
in the United States, about the various interesting 
subdivisions of our national society. 




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AN INTIMATE THEATER AND AN 
UNUSUAL PLAY 

"The Pigeon" — Little Theater, March II, igi2 

One of the most interesting, and we are inclined 
to think one of the most important, theatrical events 
of the winter is the launching of Winthrop Ames' 
Little Theater. The opening attraction was Gals- 
worthy's new play, "The Pigeon," a fascinating 
drama almost flawlessly acted. Mr. Ames has be- 
gun his novel work with fortune smiling, and he has 
deserved his success and our gratitude. 

The Little Theater is one of the most beautiful 
play houses in America. It is situated on Forty- 
fourth street, just west of Long Acre Square. Two 
old houses have given way to it. The front is no 
higher than the old houses, but instead of remaining 
brown stone, it is colonial brick, with a simple colo- 
nial entrance in white, and old-fashioned wooden 
window shutters. The wooden sign swings out over 
the sidewalk like the sign of an ancient inn. The 
interior is also colonial, or more properly Georgian, 

i55 



156 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

but very rich. The auditorium has no balconies, 
and seats but 300 people, in widely spaced, comfort- 
able chairs. There are no boxes. The walls are 
paneled half way up with quartered oak, and oak 
pilasters continue to the ceiling, framing tapestries. 
The ceiling is flat, white and embossed with a colo- 
nial wreath design in very low relief. The chande- 
liers are, of course, the old cut glass pendant type. 
The stage opening is small. The lobbies are, like 
the auditorium, intimate rooms, and downstairs is 
a coffee-room, where refreshments are served gratis 
between acts, quite like afternoon tea. The whole 
atmosphere is that of social intimacy, exquisite taste, 
quiet refinement, good breeding. There is no the- 
ater like it in size and style, and only the Maxine 
Elliott Theater can even compare with it in charm. 

In such a house, of course, the plays must have 
an intimate appeal, and they ought, as well, to have 
distinct quality. It is a theater for the presentation 
of exceptional drama, drama that of necessity is not 
always well fitted to meet the diverse demands of 
the larger playhouses. Such drama exists. A 
theater to welcome it ought to exist. Mr. Ames has 
provided such a theater and provided it with prodigal 
hand. 

"The Pigeon," his first bill, is an exceptional play, 



AN INTIMATE THEATER 157 

a fascinating, thoughtful, human play (though full 
of delightful comedy), and it is acted by an excep- 
tional company, drilled into a flawless ensemble. 

Mr. Ames has retained as stage director George 
Foster Piatt, who was his director at the New 
Theater, a man who works at his best in an intimate 
auditorium, and he has also retained Wilfrid North, 
his assistant stage director at the New Theater. 
Further, he still has in his company Miss Matthison 
(though she is not in "The Pigeon"), Miss Pamela 
Gaythorne and several minor players. The new 
members of his staff, however, are not players who 
have been spoiled by the star system, and they have 
worked at the very start into the spirit of ensemble 
playing. Among them are Russ Whytal, Frank 
Reicher and Sidney Valentine, three fine actors, who, 
in "The Pigeon," perform in a way to restore our 
sometimes tottering faith in latter-day histrionic art. 
Mr. Ames, obviously, gained experience at the New 
Theater. He also achieved the nucleus of an or- 
ganization, which he has brought over with him, and 
so starts with a considerable advantage. 

"The Pigeon" is now available in book form. 
We need not, therefore, describe it minutely, for 
most people who are interested in the finer things in 
the modern theater will undoubtedly procure it. 



158 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

Mr. Galsworthy describes it as a fantasy. It is not, 
however, fantastic. Evidently Galsworthy's idea 
of being fantastic is merely to smile while talking 
tenderly and touchingly about sad or serious things. 
That is characteristic of an author who comes so 
modestly to New York to see his play that nobody 
knew he was coming till the steamer arrived, and 
who takes a walk in Central Park while his play 
is being produced. Mr. Galsworthy inevitably 
reminds one of Arnold Bennett — he's so differ- 
ent! 

Superficially, and only superficially, "The Pigeon" 
resembles "Passers-by." In each play waifs of the 
London streets come into the action. But there the 
similarity ceases. In "Passers-by" the real inter- 
est was not in the waifs, but in the sentimental story 
of the young London bachelor who invited them in. 
"The Pigeon," on the other hand, has no sentimental 
story. In a way, it is almost as neuter as "Strife." 
Its interest lies in the problem of the waifs them- 
selves, and its message, beautifully and tenderly 
expressed by the action, is simply that to help such 
folk at all effectively the essential thing is not a 
public court nor an organized charity nor a soup 
kitchen, but rather love and understanding. The 
Pigeon of the title is an old artist who cannot help 



AN INTIMATE THEATER 159 

loving these human wrecks, and who is called a pig- 
eon because they pluck him. 

His daughter calls them "rotters." All through 
the play the poor girl makes determined effort to 
keep her father from bringing these waifs into his 
studio. Finally, she makes him move to a new 
studio, up seven flights, without a "lift," in order to 
avoid both the "rotters," and the philanthropic vicar, 
and the professor with social theories, and the police 
magistrate who believes in the reformatory value of 
the workhouse. But, at the end, the poor old artist 
gives his new address to all of them. "It's stronger 
than me," he wails. It is his dissipation. His love 
for them is his weakness. But it is also his strength. 
It is he alone who gets to the waifs at all. The play 
is not a plea for a social theory. It is a plea for love 
and sympathy and understanding. 

Russ Whytal is a sweet, benignant figure as the 
old artist, who, the tramp says, can hardly be a 
Christian, because he has such a kind face. The 
three waifs are a London flower girl, who later goes 
on the streets, played touchingly by Parmela Gay- 
thorne, Timson, a tipsy old cabbie, played with irre- 
sistible humor by Sidney Valentine, and Ferrand, a 
tramp (a character out of one of the author's earlier 
books), played by Frank Reicher. Ferrand is no 



160 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

ordinary vagabond of the comic papers. He is a 
cosmopolitan vagabond, French by blood, full of 
quaint, racy idiom, with a strong vein of philosophy 
— a truly extraordinary man. He is a man who 
would have been a considerable success in the world 
if he had been differently balanced, if he had been 
endowed with concentration instead of the wander- 
lust. The type is not unknown. It is not even rare 
(though people who have had no experience of the 
underworld will not believe this). But no doubt 
it is more common in Europe than America, and 
for that reason Frank Reicher's German blood pos- 
sibly enabled him to understand the character better. 
He plays it, certainly, with wonderful feeling. All 
the humor, all the philosophy, all the pathetic futil- 
ity of this strange being are in his impersonation. 
The character goes beyond the confines of the stage. 
He is a real man. You wander with him over the 
globe, see the world from his point of view, and 
realize at last the grim futility of institutional char- 
ity to catch and tame such a wild bird, to reform him 
by giving him a bath. 

"But," he cries to the artist, "are you really Eng- 
lish? You treat me like a brother!'' 

"Ah, Monsieur," he says again, "I am loafer, 
waster — what you like — for all that [bitterly] pov- 



AN INTIMATE THEATER 161 

erty is my only crime. If I were rich, should I not 
be simply veree original, 'ighly respected, with soul 
above commerce, traveling to see the world? And 
that young girl, would she not be 'that charming 
ladee,' 'veree chic, you know!' And the old Tims, 
good, old-fashioned gentleman, drinking his liquor 
well. Eh, bien! — what are we now? Dark beasts, 
despised by all. That is life, Monsieur." 

Strange, disquieting words, these, when you come 
to think of them — disquieting with the naked truth ! 

The poor little flower girl had been taken after 
act two, when her young husband refused to receive 
her back, into an institution by the vicar. In act 
three she had begun her life on the streets. "She 
wanted the joy of life — she chose the life of joy — 
not quite the same thing!" says the philosophical 
tramp. She overhears some of the tramp's bitter 
words, and tries to drown herself. But the police- 
man, who admits she were better off dead, saves her. 
Sobbing on the old artist's shoulder, she says the 
people at the institution where she was placed looked 
at her as if they wanted her dead. "I couldn't stop 
there, you know." 

"Too cooped up, eh?" says the artist. 

"Yes. No life at all, it wasn't — not after sellin' 
flowers. I'd rather be doin' what I am!" 



162 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

Terrible words again! — though the audience is 
prone to laugh at them. 

Then she is carried off to the station-house, to 
be tried for the crime of trying to kill herself, by a 
magistrate who believes that there is no hope for her, 
and she'd be much better off dead. Even the vicar 
has admitted his belief in the "lethal chamber" as 
her happiest resting place. The poor, simple- 
minded old artist cannot see the logic in all this — 
you grasp how simple-minded he is? Only the 
vagabond rises to the occasion. 

"Do not grieve, Monsieur," he says, "this will give 
her courage. There is nothing that gives more 
courage than to see the irony of things." 

The irony of things — that is the play. Under its 
wit (for it is witty) and its comedy (for it is full 
of comic situations), runs the undercurrent of irony, 
the irony of our poor, feeble institutions to deal with 
so individual and wild a thing as the human soul. 
The irony is not lessened by the fact that the only 
person in the play who reaches the hearts of these 
waifs is the poor pigeon, whose love for them is re- 
garded as an amiable weakness by everybody else. 

Of course, there is one great point which Gals- 
worthy has here ignored. There are men, thank 
God, and women, too, whose love is no less than the 



AN INTIMATE THEATER 163 

old artist's, who have his weakness, too, but who have 
in addition a power of character to inject into other 
souls something of their own faith and strength. 
The Salvation Army understands this, and sends 
men and women among the "rotters," who very often 
cause a "new birth" in these folk, a mighty welling 
up of strength from subconscious depths, a faith 
which gives them the joy of life they crave, and the 
steadfastness they need. Galsworthy, of course, is 
absolutely right that this cannot be done by insti- 
tutions or baths, that such souls can only be reached 
by personalities who love them and who, above all, 
sympathetically understand them. But it is not 
true that such souls are only loved and understood 
by men and women in whom sympathy is a weakness, 
and that the only persons who really want them to 
live are persons who do not know how to give them 
something to live for. 

The present writer knows today a business man in 
America who has handled dozens of cases of men 
and women in worse plight than these waifs in "The 
Pigeon," and made them all good members of so- 
ciety. He loved them. They knew it, and loved 
and trusted him. He let them pluck him, too, if 
they wanted to. But very soon they didn't want to, 
because he inspired in each a new conception of the 



164 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

joy of life. He did not chain them. He simply 
substituted for an old motive a new and better one. 
In some cases it took him months, or even years. 
But he did it, and is doing it every day. It is this 
constructive side of love and sympathy Mr. Gals- 
worthy ignores. 

But, none the less, "The Pigeon" touches not the 
conventional stuff of the drama, but real life; to see 
it is to feel that you have enlarged your human ex- 
perience. It is bitter with irony, yet tender with 
sympathy, and lambent with humor. And it is 
here acted with exquisite and understanding art. 
No season can be called vain which has given us 
the Little Theater and "The Pigeon." 



BERNSTEIN AND BELASCO AT THEIR 
BEST 

"The Secret" — Belasco Theater, December <?j, igij 

Our younger actresses seem to be growing ambi- 
tious. Miss Barrymore has apparently joined the 
ranks of the serious artists now, and Miss Elsie 
Ferguson, by her performance in "The Strange 
Woman," has proved that her ambition to play 
Rosalind is not to be taken lightly. Miss Billie 
Burke has just appeared in a serious drama by 
Somerset Maugham. And, finally, Miss Frances 
Starr has essayed the most difficult role of her career, 
that of the leading figure in Henri Bernstein's latest 
play, "The Secret," beautifully produced by Mr. 
Belasco. It is a role almost totally devoid of the 
traditional "sympathy," for it is that of a cross be- 
tween Iago and Hedda Gabler; and it is set in a play 
as remarkable for its absence of the usual Gallic sex 
appeal as it is remarkable for its superb craftsman- 
ship and its suspensive march. Probably it will not 
be popular, therefore. It is "unpleasant" without 

165 



166 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

being salacious, and truthful without being "sympa- 
thetic." To hope that it will succeed because it is 
a splendid play, splendidly acted, is a feat of op- 
timism the facts of our theater hardly warrant. 
Nevertheless, it is one of the most important pro- 
ductions of the season, and if it does not succeed we 
should count it a double misfortune, because when 
Mr. Belasco does apply his genius as a stage manager 
to worthy material he should be given every encour- 
agement. 

The most striking feature of the play, perhaps, is 
the technical method of the author. In the first act 
he shows us Gabrielle Jannelot and her husband Con- 
stant living in a beautiful apartment in Paris, a most 
respectable, happy and likable couple, with several 
good friends, one of them being a young widow ( who 
had been unhappily married) named Henriette and 
another being a curious, shy, sensitive little man 
named Denis le Guern. The Jannelots are anxious 
to bring about a match between these two, and can 
not understand why Denis does not propose. This 
is made clear when Denis has an interview with Ga- 
brielle. He explains to her that he has a torturing 
imagination, which he knows would cause him to be 
very jealous of a woman whose past he did not 
share, and therefore he has always determined to 



BERNSTEIN AND BELASCO 167 

marry a young girl with no past. Yet, alas, he 
has fallen in love with Henriette. Gabrielle as- 
sures him that Henriette was never happy with her 
husband, and has had no other affair. Thus reas- 
sured, he determines to propose. Then we see 
Gabrielle warn her friend that she should confess to 
Denis a serious affair she had, just after her husband's 
death, with a certain Charlie Ponta Tulli, who, we 
gather, was rather a rake, and jilted Henriette. 

Henriette, however, does not confess. She real- 
izes that if she does Denis will not propose. No- 
body knows her secret but herself, Charlie and 
Gabrielle, and Gabrielle, her best friend, of course 
will not tell. She accepts Denis. After the happy 
pair have departed, Gabrielle blurts out the secret 
to her husband, and with great relish is telling him 
the details of her friend's love affair as the first cur- 
tain descends. We begin to see the claws, but we 
cannot guess the motive. 

Act two shows a house party, at which the guests 
are Gabrielle and her husband, Henriette and Denis, 
now married, and the mysterious Charlie. Of 
course, his presence is quite terrible for poor Hen- 
riette, the more as he takes a bitter pleasure in mak- 
ing a fool of her trusting, commonplace little hus- 
band at every turn. It seems at first as if Charlie's 



168 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

presence there were an inevitable accident, but grad- 
ually we learn otherwise. By a series of truly won- 
derful scenes — wonderful in their interwrought tex- 
ture and their steady unfolding of surprise after 
surprise — we come to realize that Gabrielle brought 
Charlie there, to make her friend miserable, and if 
possible to betray the truth to her husband. We 
learn that Charlie is not the rounder we had sup- 
posed, but had been truly in love with Henriette, had 
fully intended to marry her, and had always sup- 
posed she broke off with him because she was tired 
of him, whereas she broke off because Gabrielle had 
intercepted his letters, and she had supposed he was 
tired of her, had regarded her only as a mistress and 
was abandoning her. By the time the end of the 
act is reached, we see that Gabrielle has deliberately 
made a horrible mess of all the lives about her, wan- 
tonly done all in her power to wreck the happiness of 
her best friends, even of her husband, for a break 
between him and his sister is of her doing, also. 

But still we have no motive. 

Bernstein, even more here than in "The Thief," 
saves his major revelation till the end. It comes in 
the last act. Gabrielle has done it all because she 
cannot stand seeing those around her happy, unless 
she is causing their happiness. She is an exagger- 



BERNSTEIN AND BELASCO 169 

ated specimen of a well known if not common type, 
exaggerated, of course, to the point where she is 
practically diseased, but perhaps no less interesting 
on that account. She has made the breach between 
her husband and his sister merely because she came 
home one day and saw them sitting happily together, 
getting on very nicely without her. She smashed 
the love affair between Charlie and Henriette not 
because Henriette, being miserable and lonely after 
her unhappy marriage, had been rash enough to be- 
come Charlie's mistress until such a time as they 
could marry, and so had offended Gabrielle's moral 
sense, but simply because Henriette was finding hap- 
piness in this relation, not of Gabrielle's making. 
And when Henriette was finally married to Denis, 
and at last happy once more in the protection of a 
good man, in spite of her friend's efforts to prevent 
the marriage by a confession, Gabrielle brought 
Charlie to the house party and sowed suspicion with 
the devilish craft of an Iago. 

All this she tells to her husband in a weeping con- 
fession, saying that she could not help it, that she 
fought it, that her better nature revolted and gave 
her hours of misery. But we are a little suspicious 
of this last statement, and she does not win sym- 
pathy. Our sympathy all goes to her stricken hus- 



170 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

band, who realizes after twelve years of happy mar- 
riage that he has loved a shadow, and that hereafter 
he must protect and try to cure one morally sick to 
death. 

He behaves very well at the end, and so do 
the rest, especially Charlie, who goes quietly away 
when he knows the truth, and leaves the woman he 
has loved and her husband to work out their salva- 
tion on a new basis of understanding. 

Such is "The Secret." To all theatergoers who 
accept an author's subject matter for what it is 
worth, whether it happens to be personally pleasant 
or unpleasant to them, and who rejoice in fine crafts- 
manship and dramatic style, this play will bring un- 
alloyed delight. To the mass of theatergoers, per- 
haps, who, after all, are incapable of a detached 
point of view toward any work of art, it may prove 
caviare. 

It is acted up to the hilt by the majority of the 
company, and it is staged by Mr. Belasco better than 
any translated French drama has been staged in 
America, save Simone's production of "The Return 
from Jerusalem, " in many, many years. Miss Starr, 
of course, is not authoritative in the emotional stress 
of the final act. She is never likely to be. But in 
the earlier acts, in spite of her propensity to climb all 



BERNSTEIN AND BELASCO 171 

over the furniture like a playful kitten, she is a sweet, 
charming little woman with hidden claws that more 
and more creep out from the velvet and scratch. 
The finest performance, however, is given by Frank 
Reicher as Denis, the shy little husband, who has a 
little man's pathetic dignity and consciousness of 
commonplaceness, who has a super-sensitive imag- 
ination, but who never loses our respect, who is al- 
ways at bottom a gentleman, with all that implies. 
Mr. Reicher, with not much external aid from the 
author in filling in the part, yet contrives to make 
a distinct and vivid character creation of Denis. A 
sister of Martha Hedman, Miss Marguerite Leslie, 
plays Henriette excellently, and without any of her 
sister's foreign accent. 

But the real triumph of the production, aside from 
its unity of key and life-like smoothness, is the pro- 
nunciation of the French names and terms. Every 
player speaks them correctly. In an American pro- 
duction of a Gallic drama, this is little short of mi- 
raculous. The two interior settings are models of 
beauty and good taste. Mr. Belasco has here ap- 
plied his genius to material worth while, and the 
result is an evening of keenest enjoyment. 



MAUDE ADAMS AS A MURDERESS 

"The Legend of Leonora" — Empire Theater, 
January 5, IQ14 

J. M. Barrie's latest play is making a lot of trouble 
just now. Miss Maude Adams is playing it at the 
Empire Theater, hence the trouble. If she were 
not playing it, the perplexed souls would stay at 
home with The Outlook or The Cosmopolitan, and 
then they wouldn't be perplexed. That's the way 
they did when "Little Mary" was produced at the 
Empire Theater some years ago. Of course, as a 
result, "Little Mary" failed. But the circulation 
of The Cosmopolitan is still going up, no doubt. 

However, Miss Maude Adams is acting "The Leg- 
end of Leonora," so her admirers (and they are 
legion), of course feel called upon to go to the 
theater. Poor things ! What they behold is enough 
to turn the hair gray. "Peter Pan" was pretty hard 
to swallow, but, of course, the children liked it, and 
one has to sacrifice something for the children. 
But not even a child could make head or tail out 

of "The Legend of Leonora." It is very sad. 

172 



MAUDE ADAMS AS A MURDERESS 173 

Yet this play starts off innocently enough. Cap- 
tain Rattray, R. N., just home in England after 
years of remote exploration, is invited to dinner by 
an old friend, who tells him six or seven women 
will be there, and, without naming them, runs over 
their characteristics. One has too little humor; one 
has too much; one is a clinging vine; one a suffra- 
gette, who gets angry if you pick up anything she 
drops (and she's always dropping things) ; one is 
just a mother; one a hopeless coquette; finally, one 
is a murderess. Left alone by his host, a woman 
guest enters. Which one is she 4 ? The captain has 
learned none of the names. He is left to find out 
which she is by her actions. It is a scene of deli- 
cious comedy, as the reader can fancy, with Barrie as 
the author. Of course, the poor captain guesses first 
one and then the other, constantly on the track and 
off again. He tells a funny story and gets a stare, 
yet the next moment he himself is being laughed at. 
He thinks her all mother, only to learn that she tan- 
goes till a late hour, and so on. 

But at last he learns that she is the murderess. 
This is something of a shock to him and to the audi- 
ence. Miss Adams a murderess, indeed! How 
dare the author do such a thing ! But Leonora has- 
tens to explain. She was in a railroad carriage with 



174 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

her little girl, and a horrid man wouldn't shut the 
window when she asked him to, so she pushed him 
out on the track (the train was going at high speed) 
and shut the window herself. Of course, anybody 
can realize there was nothing else for her to do, be- 
cause her little girl had a cold — one of those mean, 
sniffy colds. 

Now, for some utterly unaccountable reason, the 
average auditor doesn't seem to regard this as a 
complete justification for murder any more than the 
astonished captain did. Not even the fact that it 
was a sniffy cold seems, to the average person, to 
excuse the deed. Confusion enters the audience's 
mind at this point. They apparently think they are 
in for a trial scene a la "Madame X." At any rate, 
they are so flabbergasted that they do not enjoy the 
closing revelation of this act — which is that there 
were not to be seven guests at all, but only one. 
Leonora herself was all those kinds of women. (Of 
course, what Mr. Barrie is trying in his poor, stupid, 
blundering way to tell us is that every woman is all 
those kinds of women, including, no doubt, the mur- 
deress, provided her little girl had a sniffy cold and 
a horrid man wouldn't close the window.) 

The next two acts are unique in the English 
drama. They depict the trial of Leonora for mur- 



MAUDE ADAMS AS A MURDERESS 175 

der, and they are at once as wild a burlesque of 
courts as was Gilbert's "Trial by Jury," and, at the 
same time, as warmly human, as mellow, at times 
as tender, as any of Mr. Barrie's more serious work. 
Alas! the average admirers of Miss Adams seem to 
scent the tenderness, but to be completely baffled 
by the burlesque. The present writer heard one 
woman declare, with a deep expulsion of breath, 
"Oh, dear, I wish this play was more probable !" 

It would be about as sensible to wish "Engaged" 
more probable, or "The Mikado," for "The Legend 
of Leonora" is more Gilbertian than any of Barrie's 
other plays. Yet it differs from Gilbert's work in 
this important respect — it uses burlesque not so much 
for satire, which implies scorn, as a roundabout way 
of praising what it is not now popular to praise, the 
"old-fashioned woman." 

To Barrie the old-fashioned woman is just woman, 
and she includes the new and the old, a creature 
infinite and lovely, who can vote if she wishes, 
bless her, and rear children, and flirt, and go into 
business, and always triumphantly overthrow man 
and his poor, logical systems by her potent weapon 
of charm — what, in an earlier play, he called "that 
damned charm." If Barrie chooses to say all this by 
means of quaint burlesque, why not"? What is more 



176 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

delightful than good burlesque, just for its own 
sake? And when it is burlesque with such a pur- 
pose added, to some of us it becomes doubly de- 
lightful. 

But, alas, to others it seems to become doubly 
perplexing. It isn't probable. But, for that mat- 
ter, what is*? 

Words are quite inadequate to describe the trial 
scene. A learned judge sits high aloft at the rear. 
The jury sit along the footlights, their backs to the 
audience. The prisoner sits at the left, the witness 
box is to the right. And what goes on reminds you 
at times of the famous trial of the Knave of Hearts, 
on the charge of grand larceny, as witnessed by 
Alice. Leonora is defended by the captain (who, 
of course, has fallen in love with her, and proposes 
in open court). She won't keep still. She talks at 
any and all times. She makes the judge smell her 
flowers. She pities the crown prosecutor, when a 
point goes against him. She discusses the culture 
of delphiniums with one of the jury, and the care 
of children with another. When she wants tea, the 
court takes a recess. When she takes the witness 
chair she promptly says all her lawyer's case is a lie 
(he had proved she wasn't even in that train), and 
bases her case on the fact that her little girl had a 



MAUDE ADAMS AS A MURDERESS 177 

cold — a sniffy cold. When the jury retire to delib- 
erate, they send back word that they are lonesome 
and request that Leonora come and sit with them 
while they debate. She goes. They promptly re- 
turn a verdict of not guilty. 

All this takes two acts. They are two acts of 
delicious topsy-turvy, with not a little sly fun poked 
at British court procedure, and a great deal of im- 
plied faith in "that damned charm." To play them 
effectively, of course, you must have an actress who, 
herself, has a personality full of charm, a personality 
which everybody loves, to whose spell everybody 
yields. There are a score of actresses who could 
have played Act I of this comedy better than Miss 
Adams — who, indeed, plays it very badly, for she 
does not suggest the seven different kinds of a woman 
at all. But she and she alone could play the court- 
room scene and deliver its full message. If the play 
fails with her as Leonora, it can never succeed — 
which is, indeed, a pity. 

The last act doesn't amount to much. It shows 
the coming of happiness to Leonora (who, by the 
way, is a widow; perhaps we forgot to state that) 
and the captain, and gives the puzzled a loophole of 
escape, by the suggestion that maybe — maybe — 
Leonora never pushed anybody out of a window, but 



178 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

was just one of those women capable of doing it for 
the salvation of her baby. 

Personally, we hope this isn't so. We hope she 
did push him out. It served him jolly well right. 
The little girl had a cold — a horrid, sniffy cold. We 
have one just now ourself. 



"THE PHANTOM RIVAL" AND MISS 
CREWS 

"The Phantom Rival" — Belasco Theater, 
October <5, IQ14 

Ferenc Molnar, Hungarian playwright, was first 
made known to America when two versions of his 
play, "The Devil," were acted here some seven years 
ago, one by George Arliss and one by Edwin Stev- 
ens. "The Devil" did not suggest a dramatist of 
importance, but "Where Ignorance Is Bliss," pro- 
duced last year by Mr. Fiske, though a failure, 
showed the discerning that Molnar is an artist. 

Now Leo Ditrichstein has adapted and Mr. Bel- 
asco has produced his play, "The Phantom Rival," 
and no one can longer doubt Molnar's claim to real 
distinction. "The Phantom Rival" is highly ef- 
fective theatrically, it is based on an idea, it has 
charm and wit and subtlety, pith and point and pur- 
pose. In short, it has dramatic style. Whenever 
Belasco applies his great gifts of management to the 

production of such a play he turns out an entertain- 

179 



180 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

ment of sheer delight, as in the case of "The Con- 
cert." It is only because the same fulsome praises 
have been showered on his productions of bunkum 
as on his productions of stage literature that the judi- 
cious have come to dread his effect on our theater. 
"The Phantom Rival," however, can have but one 
effect — that of splendid stimulation. 

Not the least interesting feature of the produc- 
tion is the fact that Mr. Ditrichstein has adapted a 
play in which his is far from the major part (he does 
not even act the role given generally in Europe to 
the leading actors), and Mr. Belasco has picked for 
the major part a woman who has not Billie Burke's 
kittenish charm nor somebody else's lovely eyelids, 
but who does possess the ability to act — Miss Laura 
Hope Crews. For many years Miss Crews has 
watched other girls of her age go forward into stellar 
roles by virtue of this, that, or the other personal at- 
tribute which the public liked, while she herself re- 
mained, like the late Frank Worthing, a better 
player in a lesser place. But she has, to a degree 
possessed by almost no other player of her age on 
our stage, the technical command of her trade. She 
still has the charm of youth, too, and she can be as 
kittenish as the youngest of them. But she can top 
them all when it comes to real impersonation. And 



"THE PHANTOM RIVAL" 181 

it was she whom Mr. Belasco selected to play the 
leading role in "The Phantom Rival" — a wise 
choice, for her performance ranks with Mrs. Camp- 
bell's in "Pygmalion"; they are the high points in 
the season. 

The scene of this play opens in a restaurant. An 
author is talking with an actor. He says that every 
woman, at the back of her head, carries the memory 
of her first love, whom she has glorified into an ideal, 
an ideal by which she measures even her husband. 
Then Frank Marshall, a middle-aged lawyer, and 
his young wife Louise come in and sit at another 
table. They have evidently been quarreling, and 
they continue to quarrel. He is a bundle of nerves, 
jealous, irrational, and in Mr. Ditrichstein's adap- 
tation he seems rather harsh and brutal — one of 
those horrid, nagging husbands. The trouble is, of 
course, that he is peculiarly a continental type of 
husband, and doesn't "adapt" well into an Amer- 
ican setting. The quarrel grows worse when a man 
(a foreigner, evidently) enters, whom his wife is 
startled to see. Marshall makes a scene — he be- 
comes almost a table d'hote Othello. Returning to 
their home, he drags a confession out of his angry 
and sore-tried wife that ten years ago she met this 
Russian in Brooklyn, and he loved her. Yes, he 



182 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

wrote her a note when he left. No, he didn't kiss 
her. Yes, the note is in her desk. Did she love 
him? Did she? Mrs. Marshall, woman-like, does 
not tell all ! 

The husband reads the note. It is very juvenile, 
rather mushy. Sascha Tatischeff will come back, 
he says, to claim her, when he is either a great 
soldier or a great diplomat or a great singer. Even 
if he is a poor tramp he will return. The husband 
laughs at the note, laughs long and loud. He has 
been cured of his jealousy. But the wife winces 
as from a blow. He is making fun of her first love 
ideal, which is sacred, even from a husband. 

They are to go to a ball later that evening, where 
the husband is to meet a prominent Russian diplo- 
mat and put through a traction deal. Mrs. Mar- 
shall lies down to rest before dressing, and as she 
rests she dreams, and in her dream she is at the ball, 
and first a great soldier comes to claim her, and it 
is Sascha. Then the great diplomat comes, and it 
is Sascha. Then a great singer, a tenor, comes, and 
sings to the guests, and he is Sascha. Then, out- 
side, she meets a poor tramp, and he is Sascha. (In 
the original it was not a tramp, but a waiter — and 
such a waiter, the paragon of grace and ease ! Mol- 
nar kept his play quite free from any sentimental 



'THE PHANTOM RIVAL" 183 

touch.) Each incarnation of Sascha is glorious in 
her sight, and with each she promises to flee — and 
then she wakes screaming, and it is time to dress. 

But before they leave for the ball the real Sascha 
enters. He is a mere secretary to the diplomat, an 
errand boy. He has almost forgotten Louise. He 
was in the army, but only in the commissary depart- 
ment. His rich uncle got him that safe berth ! He 
gave up his singing — it was too hard work to prac- 
tice. He is looking now for a rich wife. He is, 
in short, a brutal contrast to the hero of the dream. 
In the original play Louise, disillusioned completely, 
goes back to her humdrum life and begins ironically 
to check off a grocery list. In the American version 
she becomes illusioned, as it were, regarding her hus- 
band, which is a sentimental touch that is out of key 
with the comedy and illogical, considering the kind 
of man the husband was. But evidently it was sup- 
posed that the other ending would be a bit too 
cynical for us — and doubtless it would ! 

Miss Crews plays Louise, the wife, with a skill, 
a variety, a force and a charm that delight the soul. 
Dignified and womanly under the torture of her hus- 
band's jealousy, she wins absolute conviction for the 
character, makes us believe this little woman could 
carry an ideal ten years in her memory, and makes 



l&j. PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

us sympathize with her dream besides. When the 
hour of the dream comes Miss Crews rises from her 
couch and with a strange light in her eyes comes 
toward the footlights as if groping with a vision, 
and she sends a shiver down every spinal column in 
the theater, just as Mansfield used to do; she pre- 
pares, with her eyes and a smothered cry or two, for 
the illusion of the dream, and makes Belasco's task 
of shifting the actual scene to the dream-gray ball- 
room comparatively easy. All through the dream 
she maintains a strange air of passionate unreality; 
and after the waking, in the last act, when the real 
Sascha comes and the two talk together, she manages 
the effect of ever-increasing disillusionment with 
wonderful skill. There is no pathos about it. A 
sly sense of humor makes her alive to the ironies of 
the situation. She is the woman ten years married 
to another man, with a son asleep in the next room. 
It is no present happiness that is vanishing, but a 
fond memory, a lovely dream; the wraith of her girl- 
hood is going wistfully from the room. It is seldom 
that any player on our stage lays hold so firmly on 
a character, and at once makes that character live 
and carries the mere theatrical situations at the same 
time so triumphantly along. The soul and the me- 
chanics of the drama alike are held every moment 



"THE PHANTOM RIVAL" 185 

firmly in the grasp of this young woman. Mr. Bel- 
asco showed his wisdom in picking her for the part. 
Mr. Ditrichstein himself plays the role of Sascha. 
It is not a difficult one, but it offers him, in the dream 
episode, an opportunity to appear in four different 
incarnations, and in the first and last acts in yet a 
fifth. As the soldier lover and as the great diplo- 
mat of the dream, he lacks romantic charm and au- 
thentic dignity. As the singer, however, he is 
capital; and as the real Sascha at the close, when 
he unconsciously smashes Louise's ideal by the dis- 
closure of the more than common clay of which he 
is made, Mr. Ditrichstein plays with an ironic edge, 
a deft delicacy, a sense of the picturesque and the 
subtle, which makes that scene between actor and 
actress one of the most delightful bits of high com- 
edy acting seen on our stage in many a long day. 
Mrs. Fiske and George.Arliss, Grace George and the 
late Frank Worthing, or Ferdinand Gottschalk, 
might give us a similar pleasure in a similar scene. 
But who else could do it? They are not many, 
surely. And where would they find such a scene? 
Plays with the underlying subtlety of psychology of 
"The Phanton Rival" are not written every day, 
nor plays with its deftness of development and force 
of imagination. It is one of the treats of the season. 



186 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

In the staging of this work Mr. Belasco has in- 
dulged in much less than his usual elaboration of 
details and slowness of minor action. The result 
is the better for it. There is no less care for surface 
illusion, of course. Every exit and entrance is man- 
aged with the utmost lifelikeness; the waiters in the 
restaurant are like real waiters; the room in the 
Marshall house, pretty and tasteful, exactly reflects 
the sort of woman Mrs. Marshall is, and, moreover, 
it has that illusive quality of homelikeness Mr. Bel- 
asco knows so well how to impart and most other 
directors know so little. The ballroom scene, which 
is the setting for the dream, on the other hand, is 
all in gray, with lights half dimmed in white wrap- 
pings, and is as simple as it can well be. Probably 
it would be more effective if it had no reality at all 
— if it were half a flight of stairs and shadowy cur- 
tains — but we do not so stage our plays in America, 
and Mr. Belasco has done wonders with our con- 
ventional type of "realistic" setting. 

The one error in the production is the casting of 
Mr. Marshall, the husband. This part is played 
by Malcolm Williams, and while he definitely holds 
to an ideal of the character, it is not in his power to 
portray the right ideal. He is too large, too force- 
ful, too downright. Not only is this a play of subtle 



'THE PHANTOM RIVAL" 187 

psychology and real high comedy, but the husband's 
jealousy must be convincingly the result of strained 
nerves and a temperament given to brooding. Mr. 
Williams is not a high comedy actor; he lacks the 
finish. And he cannot suggest a man given to nerves 
and brooding. Therefore his scenes with Miss 
Crews suggest the constant clash of conflicting keys 
in a duet ; they are not playing on the same plane — 
one is acting on the high comedy level, the other 
somewhere below it. And, moreover, Mr. Williams, 
by his inability to suggest the frazzled nerves and 
the self-torture of a man genuinely given to brood- 
ing, loses sympathy for the husband. He becomes 
a brute. His wife ought to hate him. You can't 
understand how she could ever have married such a 
man, even without her first love memory as a de- 
terrent. 

But perhaps it is too much to ask for perfection. 



BARKER BRINGS THE NEW STAGE 
CRAFT 

"Androcles and the Lion" — Wallaces Theater, 
January 2j ; 19 15 

Granville Barker, playwright, actor, and man- 
ager, a man of strong original talent and in sympa- 
thy with radical experiments in stage craft, has 
begun an American season at Wallack's Theatre, 
with a production of Shaw's "Androcles and the 
Lion" preceded by Anatole France's "The Man 
Who Married a Dumb Wife." 

There was a great hue and cry raised, when Bar- 
ker announced his coming, by American actors who 
said that in these hard times the American stage 
should be for goods made in America, by Americans. 
But such talk is silly. The American dramatists 
and the American actors deserve patronage only in 
proportion to their merits, and if Barker can give us 
something better, why, they will either have to go 
into the movies or else find work at other occupa- 
tions. That is a law of nature, as well as of art. 

188 



THE NEW STAGE CRAFT 189 

And Barker did give us something decidedly better. 
He gave us, for a start off, two fascinating plays, 
beautifully mounted and acted according to the 
picturesque and suggestive style of the new stage- 
craft. 

The first thing he did on taking possession of Wal- 
laces theater was to build the stage out over the 
orchestra pit and the first two rows of seats, with 
entrances made through the former stage boxes. 
At the front of this almost Shakespearean platform 
stage were neither footlights nor rail. People in the 
front row of seats could literally touch the feet of 
the actors when they came to the edge. The next 
thing he did was to install arc lamps for illumina- 
tion, combined with white spots from the balconies. 
Thus all the light comes from overhead, and is as 
nearly pure white as possible. The next thing he 
did was to build a small revolving stage twenty feet 
back of the proscenium opening, for use in "Andro- 
cles and the Lion." 

"Androcles and the Lion" is a screamingly funny 
skit on the early Christian martyrs, by G. B. Shaw, 
which shocked the British public, and will not shock 
us in the least. It was printed in full in Every- 
body's Magazine last September. The first scene 
shows Androcles and his wife in the jungle, where 



igo PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

Androcles finds the lion and removes the thorn from 
its paw, in a scene of hilarious mirth. For this act 
an entirely conventional double curtain, of green, 
ragged strips, is let down just inside the proscenium, 
to represent the jungle, and all action takes place on 
the platform stage over what was once the orchestra 
and rows A and B. For the next scene this curtain 
goes up, and we see a set of arches just behind, of 
grayish-white, presumably the walls of Rome. In 
front of them are the Roman soldiers and the Chris- 
tian martyrs being led to the city. All groupings 
and colored costumes make striking pictures against 
this background of simple shadowed arches. 

Next the arches vanish, and we see the full stage 
set, the gladiators' room in the Coliseum, with the 
grated door leading to the arena in the center, and 
over it the door to Csesar"s box. This set goes across 
the stage and is painted a yellowish white, like old 
marble. It is very thick and solid, but very simple. 
The wings are masked out on either side merely by 
tall gray screens, after Gordon Craig. Those who 
have read the play will remember that after the 
scene in this room Androcles goes through the door 
into the arena to be devoured by the lion, and in the 
next scene we see him coming out of the door on the 
other side, and see the lion recognize him and begin 



THE NEW STAGE CRAFT 191 

to kiss him instead of eating him, much to Csesar's 
amazement. Then the scene changes back into the 
gladiators' room, and the lion comes in with An- 
drocles and chases everybody, including the emperor 
himself. Thus we see the reason for Mr. Barker's 
revolving stage. The scene is built so that the back 
side shows the reverse of the door and the wall 
and the emperor's box; and when the first epi- 
sode is played, and Androcles starts through the 
door to his martyrdom, the lights go out, the stage 
revolves in less than a minute, and when the lights 
flash on we see Androcles coming through the other 
side of the door. The illusion is perfect, and the 
time consumed in making the change so very brief 
that it does not delay the play at all. The same 
thing is repeated while the audience is still rocking 
with laughter over the absurd antics of the lion when 
he recognizes the man who pulled the thorn from 
his foot. 

The advantages of Mr. Barker's settings are 
many. First of all, there is the intimacy which the 
platform stage gives. Next, there is the pictorial 
quality of the simple backings, the overhead white 
light and the consequent prominence of the costumes 
and groupings. Finally, there is the great advan- 
tage of speed gained by the revolving stage and the 



1Q2 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

great solidity which this stage makes possible in the 
construction of the one wall which comprises the 
whole Coliseum setting. A single bit of wall, heav- 
ily built, solid, picturesque, is far more suggestive 
than acres of flapping canvas. Also, it throws the 
actors into far more prominence, for it does not dis- 
tract the eye to a hundred different details, and it 
forms a plain background against which the rich 
costumes can group in lovely combinations. On our 
old stages this skit would be played in five scenes, 
with consequent waits, totaling at least half an hour. 
Barker plays it practically as a one-act drama. 

Of course, these settings would avail little with- 
out intelligent acting and a play adapted to such 
treatment. But Mr. Shaw's skit is entirely adapted 
to such treatment, being fantastic in mood and far 
removed from the present in time. And Mr. 
Barker's company acts it to the hilt — without any 
star performers, even though his wife, Lilian Mc- 
Carthy, is featured on the program — and with a 
speed and zest and team play that is beyond praise. 
One has only to note, for instance, how every player 
considers his position with relation to the groupings, 
the stage pictures, not the spotlight. If there is a 
star performer, it is Phil Dwyer as the lion. More 
comical and expressive roars were never emitted by 



THE NEW STAGE CRAFT 193 

human nor feline throat. The part of Androcles 
is delightfully played by O. P. Heggie, in a mild, 
wistful, long suffering, early-Christian-martyr vein, 
with the necessary hint beneath of dogged will and 
a dream triumphant. 

"Androcles and the Lion" is preceded by "The 
Man Who Married a Dumb Wife," a farce trans- 
lated by Professor Curtis Hidden Page from the 
French of Anatole France. It is not, however, a 
piece of subtle irony like "Thais" or "Penguin 
Island," but apparently a very frank imitation of 
those old French farces which used to be written 
when Columbus was discovering America, such as 
the famous "Master Pierre Patelin." Mr. Barker 
has given it a Reinhardt setting designed by an 
American artist, Robert E. Jones — a setting in black 
and white on the style of the relief stage, with cos- 
tumes in heavy reds and oranges and strong yellows. 
Even so, however, appreciation of the play can 
hardly come without an historical sense. It tells 
the tale of a man who had a dumb wife, got a famous 
doctor to restore her voice, and then was driven so 
nearly mad by her prattle that he had the same doc- 
tor put a powder in his ear to make him deaf. This 
tale is so childish in its humor that you can enjoy 
it only by regarding it not as a modern work, but 



194 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

as a medieval farce. The stage settings, however, 
and the costume groupings and the street processions 
passing across the platform stage over the very heads 
of the front row of spectators are a delight to the 
senses, whether you are interested in history or not. 



A FEW MORALIZINGS FROM "THE 
WEAVERS" 

"The Weavers" — Garden Theater, December 14, 
1915 

The present dramatic critic of the New York 
Tribune (we say "present" because The Tribune 
seems to believe that variety is the spice of criticism) 
is a young man, and when he witnessed the first 
American performance of Hauptmann's play, "The 
Weavers," acted at the Garden Theatre by Emanuel 
Reicher and an excellent company, his enthusiasm 
did him credit. He said next morning that the pro- 
duction might very possibly mark an epoch in the 
American theatre. We only wish that we were ten 
years younger ourself, and had therefore escaped ten 
years of theatrical disillusionment, and could agree 
with him. But we are not ten years younger, and 
we have not escaped disillusionment. The Amer- 
ican stage will go right on much as if Mr. Reicher 
had never mounted "The Weavers." That play 
will no more affect the current of our drama than 

195 



196 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

the Russian novelists have affected the art of Robert 
W. Chambers and Gene Stratton Porter. 

Nor is 'The Weavers" the first play of the kind 
which has been produced, and well produced, in 
America. To be sure, it was written over twenty 
years ago and belongs among the pioneer works of 
sheer naturalism in the theatre, but it never had a 
production on our English speaking stage (so far as 
the records show) till this month. In actual pro- 
duction it was preceded by several other purely 
naturalistic plays, notable among them being Gals- 
worthy's ' 'Strife," also, curiously enough, a drama 
of industrial conflict. "Strife" was put on, and put 
on with rare skill, at the New Theatre, and played 
by the New Theatre company in various parts of 
the country. But does anybody venture to affirm 
that "Strife" has marked an epoch in our playhouse? 
Has the naturalistic drama made any perceptible 
strides among us as a result? Alas, nary a stride! 

Personally, we felt at the first production of 
"Strife" exactly what Mr. Broun of The Tribune 
felt at the first production of "The Weavers" — 
namely, a great sense of mental exhilaration, a sense 
that at last the stage was showing something more 
than the eternal battle of sex and the eternal per- 
sonal narrative; that it was illuminating a whole 



A FEW MORALIZINGS 197 

section of life and creeping very close to realities. 
We fancy we even wrote, in our enthusiasm, that 
the production of "Strife," an English naturalistic 
play, would perhaps mark an epoch in the history of 
our playhouses. 

And Cohan goes marching on. Megrue is to the 
front. Ethel Barrymore plays "Emma McChes- 
ney." Grace George falls back upon revivals. 
Elsie Ferguson turns to Hall Caine for a new play. 

Nothing could be farther from our wish than to 
detract one jot from Mr. Broun's enthusiasm, or even 
to suggest that he desist from his efforts to urge all 
New Yorkers into the Garden Theatre to see a vivid 
and truthful performance of a truly splendid play, a 
play in which naturalism is raised to eloquence and 
sincerity is more soul-searching than sentiment. 
Every audience that "The Weavers" can reach is 
so much gained. But the sad fact remains, we fear, 
that the naturalistic drama is foreign to American 
taste and understanding, and each production of it 
marks not an epoch but an "impossible loyalty" — 
one of those impossible loyalties, perhaps, which 
caused Matthew Arnold to think so tenderly of Ox- 
ford. A certain type of artist, a certain type of 
critic, a certain very limited section of the public, 
will always admire this kind of drama above all 



198 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

others, at least in certain moods. But for the great 
majority it will, apparently, remain, in America, 
caviar; which is to say, an expensive luxury. 

Who can say why this is? Is it because of some- 
thing in the national temperament'? Is it because 
of our dramatic training — for audiences are trained, 
just as much as artists? Is it a racial convention, or 
a racial limitation? 

Think back over the American dramas coincident 
with "The Weavers" (which was produced first in 
1893). At about that time Heme wrote "Shore 
Acres," which was considered a great step forward 
in realism. But how far that play is from the 
naturalism of "The Weavers" ! One, after all, is 
a conventional narrative of personalities, the other 
is a picture of a people, a class, a community. Since 
Heme, we have had Fitch, Gillette, Klein, Moody, 
Thomas, Eugene Walter, Edward Sheldon, Percy 
MacKaye, and so on — not a one of them really being 
more than superficially affected by naturalism. 
Better technique, closer observation, greater intel- 
lectuality, enabled some of these men to write much 
finer plays than their American predecessors. But 
none of them has produced a play in the style of 
"The Weavers," or of "Strife," or even attempted 
such a play. Each, in his way, has snatched a bit 



A FEW MORALIZINGS 199 

of personal story out of the web of life, usually, if 
not invariably, a story of sex, or greatly involving 
sex, heightened it by every possible device, and set 
it before us in the terms of the conventional drama. 
There is less sign today of a naturalistic drama in 
America than there was when Walter wrote "The 
Easiest Way." Possibly, also, there is less of such 
drama in Germany than when Hauptmann wrote 
"The Weavers." 

There is, however, one fact to be considered which 
probably has a decided bearing on the case. Except 
in some happy land where all theatregoers enjoy 
their drama seriously, the great majority of people 
go to the playhouse in a holiday mood. This is 
especially true of America. When people enter the 
playhouse in a holiday mood it almost invariably 
follows that they will, first of all, prefer comedy, 
and, secondly, that if they are pleased by more tense 
or serious drama, it will be drama with a strong story 
interest, with the elemental "punch," with the power 
to arouse sympathy in the concrete fate of human 
characters. The naturalistic drama, taking life, as 
it does, without beginning and leaving it without an 
end, asking as it does of an audience that they draw 
their own conclusions from the mere spectacle of 
observed reality, has a peculiarly intellectual em- 



200 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

phasis, and is inevitably the chosen drama of the few 
rather than the many — probably even in Germany. 
Moreover, the naturalistic drama, by the very laws 
of its being, is a local affair primarily. Scribe and 
Sardou go into any language, in any land. 'The 
Weavers" is Teutonic, and could no more be adapted 
than you could adapt a photograph of von Hinden- 
berg or turn Pilsener beer into Rheims champagne. 
The truer it is to its artistic type, the truer it is to 
some definite people or locality. 

For these reasons, it seems fairly obvious that 
under the conditions of production in the American 
theatre there is little chance or encouragement for 
a native naturalistic drama. Our plays here have 
to be produced for a long run — that is, for the 
masses, not the few; and they have to be produced 
for Broadway, which, we fear, isn't much interested 
in the minutiae of life in New England or the Ten- 
nessee mountains. In spite of the tentative and 
still amateur efforts to establish local theatres in 
America — provincial theatres in the true sense — 
they are still efforts with no real effect on the cur- 
rent of our drama. At best they are only hopeful 
signs on the low eastern horizon. We still produce 
for Broadway, and we still produce not for theatres 
where there is a system flexible enough to let the 



A FEW MORALIZINGS 201 

few have their plays as well as the many, but for 
theatres where only the drama which can attract the 
crowds has any chance for survival. 

In other words, even if there were a demand for 
a native naturalistic drama in America, this demand 
cannot, under present conditions, make itself felt, 
and there is no encouragement to authors to try their 
hand at this perhaps the most difficult of dramatic 
forms. Such statements are rather platitudinous, 
but it seems worth while to reiterate them. All 
those who enjoy such a play as "The Weavers," who 
would like to see our stage attempt the creation of 
similar dramas, must fix firmly in their heads and 
hearts the idea that our stage never can attempt this 
creation till it is conducted under a different system ; 
until there are standard provincial repertory houses. 
And such houses must not be amateur "Little" the- 
atres, but professional and of man's estate. The 
problem, after all, is a practical one. A dramatist 
can no more create a play without the physical 
means than a painter can paint without colors and 
brushes. 



A TWENTIETH-CENTURY TRAGEDY 

"Justice" — Candler Theater \ April j, igi6 

John Galsworthy's play, "Justice," one of the 
most striking examples of the modern naturalistic 
drama, was first produced at the Duke of York's 
Theatre, London, on February 21, 1910. It cre- 
ated a profound impression in England, but for six 
years it remained neglected by American profes- 
sional managers, though there were occasional ama- 
teur preformances. Finally Mr. John D. Williams, 
after the formation of the theatrical firm of Corey, 
Williams and Riter, resolved to make trial of this 
noble work. Selecting a cast of exceptional excel- 
lence, directed by B. Iden Payne, Mr. Williams and 
his partners produced * 'Justice" in New Haven, on 
March 2, 1916. Several representatives of New 
York theatres were present on that occasion, and as 
a result of their highly developed powers of ob- 
servation, seven New York theatres refused to give 
the production house room on Broadway. Curi- 
ously enough, however, Mr. Williams still had faith 

202 



TWENTIETH-CENTURY TRAGEDY 203 

in Galsworthy's drama, and ultimately he found a 
theatre in our metropolis which was willing "to take 
a chance on gloom." Accordingly, "Justice" 
opened at the Candler Theatre, New York, on April 
3. It only remains to add that its success was im- 
mediate and decisive ; in a very few days it was play- 
ing to the capacity of the theatre. 

We record this bit of theatrical history because 
it so well illustrates not only the obstacles which 
confront a manager bent on doing fine and serious 
things, but also the ready response to genuine sin- 
cerity and power which is latent always in the public, 
even the public of New York. Nor, perhaps, can 
one wholly blame the theatre managers who refused 
to book "Justice." They had all seen three of Gals- 
worthy's other plays produced in New York with- 
out causing a ripple of public enthusiasm, and here 
was a fourth far more tragic and unrelieved than 
the others. It didn't look like a hopeful gamble, 
after all. 

Why was it, then, that "Justice" became a great 
popular success, when "The Silver Box" was a fail- 
ure, and "Strife" and "The Pigeon" attracted only 
moderate audiences*? Why should a stark tragedy 
succeed, and a comparative comedy like "The 
Pigeon" remain caviare to the general? 



204 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

The answer probably is that in "Justice" Gals- 
worthy's still white flame of spiritual sympathy has 
for once set fire to the curtains of his reserve, and 
he has burst into a blaze of passion. It may seem 
curious to some to speak of "Justice" as passionate. 
But in the finer sense of that noble and abused word, 
it glows with a white heat of passion. Beside it, 
"The Silver Box" is comparatively cold; beside it 
"Strife," with its ironic vicious circle, so that the 
play ends where it began, and "The Pigeon," with 
its wistful inconclusiveness, are emotionally indefi- 
nite. "Justice," after all, takes sides, it gets some- 
where, and tugs at our hearts in the process. No- 
body has ever questioned, or could question, the 
sincerity of Galsworthy's sympathies for the out- 
cast, the unfortunate, the oppressed, in any of his 
works. But in his efforts to be fair, to keep his 
judgments cool, and, furthermore, to preserve the 
balance of life in all situations — a purely technical 
problem of the realist — he has in his dramas, at 
least, often erred on the side of restraint. He has 
seemed not enough to take sides, or not enough to 
drive for a definite conclusion. It is an error the 
dramatist cannot make, and hope for a wide audi- 
ence. It is a mistake he has not made in "Justice." 

Yet this play has no hero, and no villain, or, 



TWENTIETH-CENTURY TRAGEDY 205 

rather, it makes of every man and woman in the 
audience the villain. The young clerk Falder (very 
graphically and truly played by John Barrymore) 
obeys a primitive instinct of self-preservation and 
the preservation of the woman he loves, when he 
raises his employer's check as the only means of 
securing money. But he also no less surely breaks 
one of society's necessary safe-guarding laws, and 
society (which is you and I and all the audience) 
has agreed that for our self-preservation we must 
put such offenders away. So far, so good. But 
after some thousands of years, the best place we have 
supplied for the segregation of the law-breakers is 
Sing Sing prison and its ilk. (Mr. Thomas Mott 
Osborne pointed out to the Drama League, by the 
way, that the cell of an English prison, represented 
in "Justice," was a "palace" compared to the cells 
in Sing-Sing.) Mr. Galsworthy doesn't believe 
that society should rest content with such a solution. 
He doesn't believe that society should take one of 
its weak members (a man, mind you, who was not 
base nor brutal, who was ironically obeying one of 
the best impulses of his life — to save the woman he 
loved from vile persecution, when he obeyed one of 
the worst) and put him through the prison mill and 
then turn him out branded and doomed. All Gals- 



206 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

worthy's fairness of temper and skill in preserving 
the cross purposes, the checks and balances of actual 
life, are seen in his handling of the first two acts of 
this play — the arrest and trial of Falder. The lad 
goes to prison with our pity, but he goes, we feel, 
rightly. 

But in the last two acts the author can at last 
take sides. He has no defence for our present prison 
system, and no need to place any checks upon our 
passionate sympathy for poor Falder after his re- 
lease, as the weak, helpless, branded creature strug- 
gles and dies in the net that has been woven about 
him. Here the author's own passion of sympathy 
glows at white heat, and here is the secret of the 
great success of "Justice." 

Before a play of such profound and searching 
social implications as this, the critic is loath to speak 
of literary or technical excellencies. The power of 
the drama, as acted in the theatre, over the emotions 
of all beholders is sufficient commentary on its work- 
manship and presentation. But it is not amiss to 
point out at this season — the tercentenary of Shake- 
peare's death — that the realistic tragedy of the early 
Twentieth Century differs far more radically than 
in mere literary form from the poetic tragedy of the 
early Seventeenth. It has been said that Shakes- 



TWENTIETH-CENTURY TRAGEDY 207 

peare never wrote a play with a hero, and the state- 
ment is true. Neither has "Justice" a hero. But 
Shakespeare never wrote a play in which the audi- 
ence was the villain, which looked beyond the in- 
dividual to the mass. By his very act in making 
us the villain of "Justice" Galsworthy tacitly recog- 
nizes a curative possibility in society itself; he 
removes the blame from a vague Omnipotence and 
by placing it on our shoulders bids us gird our loins 
with hope and courage. It is hard sometimes in 
this year of our Lord, 1916, to catch even the faint- 
est hint of that "far off, divine event" toward which 
the whole Creation is supposed to be moving. Yet, 
to the present writer, Galsworthy's "Justice" is a 
precious gleam in the darkness. 

We hold to this in spite of the fact that the State 
of New York is even now proposing to repeat in a 
new structure the terrible cell-block system of Sing 
Sing prison. 



SECTION III 
SHAKESPEAREAN REVIVALS 



ON FINDING THE JOKE IN "OTHELLO" 

Faversham's "Othello" — Lyric Theater, 
February p, igi6 

William Faversham played Iago exclusively dur- 
ing the opening week of his brief New York engage- 
ment. He had promised us "Romeo and Juliet" 
with "futurist" scenery, but was forced to abandon 
the plan, as he found the production as yet too rough 
for submission to the metropolitan public. He 
promises to improve it and launch it again next 
year. His production of "Othello" is not "futur- 
ist." It follows, scenically, the beaten track, though 
with certain modifications of lighting and increased 
simplicity due to the influence of the new stagecraft. 
Of its kind, it is a very handsome production, how- 
ever, one of the best we have seen. Where his 
"Othello" differs from tradition is chiefly in Mr. 
Faversham' s own impersonation of Iago, and the 
consequent hue that gives to the entire play. It is 
a novel, refreshing, stimulating impersonation, and 
it gives the drama a new vitality, a new holding 

211 



212 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

power. We think this ambitious actor has never 
done anything better. 

The keynote of his Iago is humor. Unquestion- 
ably, it sounds rather startling, this suggestion of 
humor in relation to one of the grimmest and most 
relentless of tragedies. But, after all, perhaps it is 
even more tragic to murder your wife at the instiga- 
tion of a humorist than a solemn plotter. Othello 
was made quite as unhappy, and Desdemona was 
no less surely slaughtered. We have, besides, the 
bard's own authority that a man may smile and smile 
and be a villain. 

Every actor, however, must be conceded the right 
to visualize a character for himself. Mr. Faver- 
sham said recently, to the writer: "I have always 
seen Iago as a humorist. I have never been able 
to conceive of him in any other way. Tradition 
may declare that he should be made a Machiavellian 
plotter, a subtle, sinister creature; but I could never 
see him so. In the first place, it always seemed to 
me that if he had been such a person, everybody 
would have seen through him, even the honest, 
stupid Moor. He couldn't have continued to fool 
them all, to hold the title of 'the honest Iago.' He 
succeeded in his villainies, it always seemed to me, 
because he was gay, humorous, light-hearted, you 



FINDING THE JOKE IN "OTHELLO" 213 

might say dashing. I will confess that I've always 
read 'Othello' with a smile. It seemed to me full 
of comedy. Moreover, Iago was an Italian — an 
Italian of the Renaissance. You've only to read 
Cellini to realize something of the lack of conscience 
in the gay days of the period. I have an idea that 
my Iago is really more truly Italian than most of 
the Iagos of tradition, whatever else may be said 
for or against it." 

Mr. Faversham might also have added, we fancy, 
that he realized certain of his own limitations (for 
every personality has its limitations), and knew that 
he could play Iago more effectively as a gay blade 
of the Renaissance than as such a sinister creature 
as we can fancy George Arliss making him, or such 
a creature of darting, insinuating evil as Booth made 
him. At any rate, he has chosen a definite concep- 
tion of the character, and he has stuck to it. The 
justification, after all, is the effect achieved. 

That effect is vivid and admirable. The play, 
indeed, as Mr. Faversham says it seems to him, 
seems to the audience oddly sprightly. Iago, in con- 
trast to the slow, rather ponderous Moor, is a 
creation Othello might well have failed to under- 
stand. How could anyone so gay and gracious be 
of evil mind? It is small wonder Othello did not 



214 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

see through him. The audience does not see 
through him for two acts, at least. It is only 
gradually that we, out front, realize the evil of the 
man, begin to get a clear conception of the character 
Mr. Faversham is painting. He takes his own dia- 
bolical wickedness so lightly! And yet, as we see 
that wickedness working, as we behold the terrible 
results on others, it is no less wicked, no less hor- 
rible, in its tragic effect. This Iago engages us, 
wins our interest, almost charms us ; as he must have 
done Othello, or the plot falls through. But we are 
no more sorry to see his final fate than if he were 
played like the villain of melodrama. It is an im- 
personation which makes for tragedy without being 
itself tragic, certainly without being theatrical. 
And it is more Italian than any Iago the present 
writer has ever seen. It is graceful, picturesque, 
fluent, cavalier — a figure from the Renaissance. 

The result of such an Iago, as we have said, is to 
make the whole drama seem curiously sprightly, 
until, of course, the final momentum has been gath- 
ered and we are rushing toward the end. There can 
be no question but this is an advantage with a mod- 
ern audience. To tragedy undiluted, especially in 
verse, we are not attuned. When Shakespeare can 
be thus "modernized" (to employ a perhaps mean- 



FINDING THE JOKE IN "OTHELLO" 215 

ingless phrase ! ) without doing violence to his essen- 
tial message, there can be no reasonable objection. 

Mr. Faversham's stage direction, as well as his 
Iago, has contributed to this end. The action never 
grows dull, never fails to bite. Each episode is 
carefully handled for the full dramatic effect, not 
slurred over to hurry on to the next virtuoso pas- 
sage for the star. Cassio (well played by Pedro de 
Cordoba) enacts his drunken scene, for example, 
with as much realism as if he were G. M. Cohan in 
Act I of "Broadway Jones." The scene is fully 
"worked out." The result of such staging is that 
the whole drama seems more alive, more vital. Vi- 
tality, the power to hold the attention, are the 
greatest merits, perhaps, of this production. 

R. D. MacLean plays Othello, and plays him with 
a certain slow-witted dignity which is an excellent 
foil to Iago's sprightliness. Mr. MacLean has real 
personal distinction, a glorious voice (especially 
when he isn't forcing it), a feeling for verse, and 
a rare power of phrasing verse in such a way that 
the sense is colloquial, while the sound is sheer music 
— that is, it is plausible human speech and poetry at 
the same time. His chief lack is a certain distinc- 
tion of enunciation, hard to define. He does not 
mispronounce, but, none the less, his speech misses 



216 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

the fine beauty of Forbes-Robertson's. Miss Loftus 
is rather a colorless Desdemona (which is possibly 
not unfitting). Miss Constance Collier, however, 
as Emilia, supplies color for them both. We have 
spoken already of Mr. De Cordoba's excellent Cas- 
sio. This actor was at the New Theater. The 
New Theater may have failed, but it is noticeable 
that all the young players in its company have 
gained greatly by those two years of repertory. 



MISS ANGLIN AND THE BARD 

Spring, 19 14 

If the ancient theatrical saw were true, that 
"Shakespeare spells ruin," a composite picture of a 
group of our leading players at the end of the cur- 
rent season would closely resemble a photograph of 
Pompeii. It is doubtful if even in the "palmy 
days" (whenever they were) Shakespeare was so 
frequently acted as in America during the winter of 
1913-14. It has been often said that Germany sees 
more Shakespeare in a season than England almost 
in a decade; but this cannot be affirmed at present 
of the United States and Canada. 

During the season now closing, Sothern and Mar- 
lowe, Margaret Anglin, William Faversham, Robert 
B. Mantell, and the Benson Company have been 
presenting Shakespearean dramas almost exclusive- 
ly, and Forbes-Robertson has been devoting half 
his repertoire to them, with his "Hamlet" probably 
the most popular performance now on our stage. 

If we give each company an average season of thirty 

217 



218 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

weeks, eight performances a week, and add one hun- 
dred and twenty performances for Forbes-Robertson, 
we find that there will have been one thousand three 
hundred and twenty performances of Shakespeare 
in the United States and Canada during the season 
just closing, without including a great many scat- 
tered productions by stock companies, and possibly 
some by actors of lesser note. The number of plays 
performed was nearly a score. 

Shakespeare may spell ruin, but there appear to 
be a great many players and managers eager for de- 
struction! Also, Germany may lead England in 
the number of its Shakespearean productions, but it 
will have to hustle to keep up with North America. 
Without much question, the total number of such 
productions on this continent during the current 
theatrical year will be close to two thousand. The 
figures are interesting, and they will come as an 
awful blow to the melancholy Jaqueses of criticism, 
who periodically wail the passing of the Bard of 
Avon. 

There are several reasons for this widespread pres- 
entation of Shakespeare's plays, over and above the 
fundamental reason that they are, all things con- 
sidered, the best plays ever written. For one thing, 
they have been played so long, and by so many dis- 



MISS ANGLIN AND THE BARD 219 

tinguished actors, that they have become a standard 
test of histrionic ability, and hence a challenge to 
all ambitious artists. The actor who essays Hamlet 
invites comparison at once with Garrick and Booth 
and Forbes-Robertson — with the greatest of his pro- 
fession. Not only is he attempting a part which 
calls for all the charm, all the depth, all the vocal 
skill which he can command (and probably a great 
deal more), and which richly repays his successful 
accomplishment; but he is deliberately inviting the 
severest of comparisons — comparisons which by their 
very severity palliate his failure and immensely 
heighten his success. To the ambition of the actor, 
Shakespeare is a perpetual allure. 

Again, Shakespeare is an object of veneration to 
the public, and a topic of study in all our schools. 
There is always a large number of people who will 
go to see his dramas acted almost as a matter of 
principle, and to them the actor or actress who 
mounts these dramas gains in dignity, is more highly 
thought of. Indeed, there was a time, and not so 
long ago, (nor has it entirely passed yet), when 
many good people would admit that an actor was 
respectable only when he played Shakespeare! 
Similarly, because Shakespeare is studied in the 
schools, there is a perpetually renewed audience of 



220 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

young people for his plays, everywhere. It is re- 
newed each year, in fact. No other dramatist has 
so sure a body of auditors, nor one which awards 
so much credit to the actor. Those players and 
managers clever enough to realize this fact have seen 
that Shakespeare, far from spelling ruin, is a capital 
investment. 

Then, too, of course the Shakespearean plays offer 
almost endless possibilities (as well as perplexities) 
of stagecraft, scene-painting, costuming, lighting. 
Saturated as they are with poetry, glimmering with 
romance or gloomed with tragedy, they give unlim- 
ited scope to the imaginative producer. Written in 
many scenes, for a stage practically bare, it is almost 
impossible to play them now in their entirety unless 
we either revert to the bare stage again or, like the 
Germans, build stages which revolve or sink, mak- 
ing the innumerable changes practicable. But they 
are all the more a challenge, then, to the modern 
producer. He wants to see how much of the text 
he can preserve. He wants to see how far he can 
simplify his scenery, still keeping it illusive, or else 
how far he can make his stage pictures live up to 
the demands of the poetry. He knows the material 
he is to illustrate is the greatest in the world, and 
if any plays can inspire him, these can. To him, 



MISS ANGLIN AND THE BARD 221 

no less than to the actors, they are a challenge and 
a spur. 

These things considered then, it is small wonder, 
after all, that Shakespeare flourishes on our stage 
and ambitious players desire to act his dramas 
(dramas which have the additional merit on the 
road of familiarity, so that the suffering public can 
know beforehand what they are going to see). This 
year William Faversham has placed two more 
Shakespearean roles to his credit — Iago and Romeo 
— and is now presenting "Romeo and Juliet" and 
"Othello" in addition to "Julius Caesar." Follow- 
ing his example, Miss Margaret Anglin (who, like 
him, was once a member of the Empire Theater 
Stock Company) has now joined the classic ranks 
and in a single season, by labors which might well 
stagger a player of the stronger sex, has achieved a 
repertoire of four Shakespearean dramas and, more- 
over, has mounted them according to the newer 
stagecraft. Her achievement is truly remarkable, 
and the toil involved must have been tremendous. 
Probably no manager would ever have undertaken 
it for her. But her reward will surely be great, also, 
for she will now occupy a position of dignity and 
leadership which nothing else could have brought 
her. 



222 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

Margaret Anglin was born in Ottawa, Canada, 
in 1876. Her father was speaker of the House of 
Commons, and her brother is now Chief Justice. 
Needless to say, her family were not theatrical. 
But she early faced her personal destiny, which 
doubtless required some courage, and went to New 
York to study for the stage. She made her first 
professional appearance in 1894, as Madeline West 
in "Shenandoah," and presently joined the company 
of James O'Neill, where she played many parts, 
including Ophelia. Later she played Rosalind in 
her native Canada. It was in 1898 that a set of 
curious chances made her the Roxane in Mansfield's 
production of "Cyrano de Bergerac," and her New 
York reputation began. She became the popular 
leading woman of the Empire Theater Company, 
where her Mrs. Dane in "Mrs. Dane's Defense" at- 
tracted wide attention and seemed to doom her to 
a career of "emotional" roles. Even her perform- 
ance in "The Great Divide" but deepened the pop- 
ular impression. 

But Miss Anglin went to Australia, and tried out 
her ripened powers in Shakespeare there. She came 
back to America and played a little comedy part in 
"Green Stockings," by way of contrast to a per- 
formance of Sophocles's "Electra" at the Greek the- 



MISS ANGLIN AND THE BARD 223 

ater of the University of California. Then she cut 
loose from managers altogether, took up the reins of 
her own destiny and early last autumn, in the West, 
she produced 'The Taming of the Shrew," "Twelfth 
Night," "As You Like it," and "Antony and Cleo- 
patra," with scenery and costumes designed by Liv- 
ingston Piatt, in strong contrast to the usual hack- 
neyed settings. She was the stage manager for all 
these plays, as well as the leading player; and she 
brought this large and exacting repertoire back across 
Canada to the Eastern seaboard last winter, in tri- 
umph. The mere physical feat is impressive. We 
think Miss Anglin is entitled to a vote ! 

The present writer saw all four productions in as 
many days, in Montreal. At that time Miss Anglin 
herself was best as Katherine in "The Taming of the 
Shrew," and the entire production of that irrepress- 
ible farce was in the most consistently sustained key 
— a key of high spirits, innocent mirth, and blithe 
romance. In Eric Blind, Miss Anglin had a Petru- 
chio of rare physical charm, unflagging good nature, 
and underlying tenderness. His chief fault is a 
lack of vocal nimbleness and variety. She herself 
is the best Shrew since Ada Rehan (who was never 
Shakespeare's Shrew, but a very wonderful person, 
none the less). She is brilliantly vitriolic, edged 



224 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

like a saber, and she is properly and convincingly 
subdued, but only after a tussle that kindles the 
blood. She is not so regal and magnificent as Miss 
Rehan, but, unless our memory is at fault, she pos- 
sesses a certain tart humanity the elder actress 
lacked. 

In staging the play, she followed the usual custom 
of omitting the Induction, which is always regret- 
table. 

The acting of "Twelfth Night" by Miss Anglin 
will probably cause some quarrel. She evidently 
hasn't a very high opinion of Viola. There are 
others, to be sure, who think of Viola as rather color- 
less, at any rate as lacking in initiative and dash; 
but it has been the custom to play her with more 
gusto than Miss Anglin permits herself. We fancy 
that the actress, in her desire to differentiate between 
Viola and Rosalind, those two heroines in trousers, 
tones down the former into a meekness the play did 
not intend — for, after all, it is a frolic. But her 
impersonation is deliberate, and she does what she 
sets out to do, though here, again, she falls some- 
times into the error of sentimentalizing the verse, 
instead of letting the beauty of it tell its own story 
by the clearest and simplest of readings. "She 
never told her love — ," as spoken by Julia Marlowe 



MISS ANGLIN AND THE BARD 225 

was a speech of marvelous and touching felicity and 
pathos. Miss Anglin misses the lyric felicity, 
and not a little of the pathos. Perhaps, after all, 
the satisfactory impersonation of Viola comes down, 
in the end, to a question of personality. 

Miss Anglin's Rosalind can probably be imagined 
by those familiar with her acting in lighter parts 
in the modern drama. Rosalind has a certain ex- 
ecutive directness (she was, after all, Mr. Shaw's 
Ann three hundred years in advance of her times), 
and a gay humor and self-confident poise which Miss 
Anglin must find congenial. She gives every evi- 
dence that she does, at any rate, and her charm, her 
high spirits, her beauty, are infectious. 

Miss Anglin's least successful performance was 
of Cleopatra — oddly enough the most emotional 
role of the four. We fancy that she herself is least 
satisfied with it, and probably will not hazard it in 
New York till she has further developed it.* Her 
performance at present is based on a conception of 
Egypt's queen which hardly squares with the popular 
idea. When all is said, Cleopatra was the supreme 
harlot, and so far as the play is a love tragedy, it 
is the tragedy of harlotry — though glorified by im- 

* Miss Anglin presented only " As You Like It," and " The 
Taming of the Shrew" in New York, at the Hudson Theatre, 
in March, 19 14. 



226 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

mortal verse and pageantried with armies and with 
empires. Miss Anglin, however, does not so play- 
it. She keeps her vision fixed on Cleopatra, the 
queen, and a certain haste and hectic heat, a certain 
race of passion which is plainly enough indicated in 
the mad alternations of the queen's moods and which 
in reality makes the tragedy a swift one, are lacking 
from her performance — so lacking that the tragedy 
becomes slow. The queen is as long a-dying as poor 
Tristan in the opera, and Miss Anglin falls fre- 
quently into an error which we would never have 
predicted — the error of intoning verse, the ancient 
trick of "elocution." Alas, we fear there is truth 
in the saying that no lady can play Cleopatra ! 

The settings and costumes for all of Miss Ang- 
lin's productions were made by Livingston Piatt, 
an American artist who studied abroad, and on his 
return made his first designs for the amateur Toy 
Theater in Boston, and then for John Craig's stock 
company in the same city. Because his settings are 
in themselves lovely, but still more because their 
employment by Miss Anglin marks the first attempt 
on a considerable scale to apply the newer stage- 
craft to Shakespearean production in this country, 
a somewhat extended discussion of them in this place 
seems worth while. 



MISS ANGLIN AND THE BARD 227 

The key to his scheme is found in the fore-stage. 
Some six or eight feet back of the proscenium, on 
either side, are hung negative, plain brown draperies. 
Between them and the proscenium are thrust out two 
entrance doorways, solidly built, one on either side. 
Each play has its own set of doorways, and its own 
border, running across above. For "The Taming 
of the Shrew" and "Twelfth Night" these entrances 
are Italian, for "As You Like It" nondescript, for 
"Antony and Cleopatra" heavy and columnar. 
Similarly, the four connecting borders are painted in 
the corresponding architectural styles. 

Now, for every "front scene" a drop is lowered 
just behind these fore-stage doors, boxed in by the 
doors, the brown hangings and the appropriate 
border. For Italian rooms, the drops are large 
tapestries, for outdoor sets sometimes a mere picture, 
sometimes a double drop showing a landscape over a 
wall, or through an entrance. The two proscenium 
doors seem part of the proscenium arch in the outside 
scenes and do not destroy illusion; and for the in- 
teriors they aid illusion. They are extremely 
effective. But their chief merit lies in this — while 
the "front scene" is being played in a really illusive 
setting, so that it does not seem like a makeshift, 
the large full scene to follow is always being put in 



228 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

place, and consequently there are no waits. Scene 
follows scene, act follows act, with great speed, but 
without the old-fashioned effect of makeshift set- 
tings for alternate scenes. In reality, it is a glorified 
version of the scheme so common in the old-time 
melodrama. 

When the drop rises behind the fore-stage the full 
set is not only framed by the proscenium, but it is 
matted, as it were, by the architectural entrances, the 
brown hangings, the border. It is still further con- 
fined, set off, by a framework exactly in its own 
mood and period. Set a Greek scene directly behind 
the rococo Vart nouveau of the New Amsterdam 
proscenium, for example, and the contrast is ridic- 
ulously sharp. But with Mr. Piatt's scheme the 
eye is led in past the theater proscenium, which is 
forgotten before the real picture is reached. 

As for those pictures, they are, for the most part, 
extremely simple. Compared with a setting of 
Shakespeare by Irving or Tree, or even Mr. Sothern, 
they are sometimes a mere nothing. Yet they are 
illusive and lovely, and several of them are genuine 
works of art quite by themselves, pictures the eye 
dwells on with pleasure, pictures which fire the 
imagination, which at last live up to the magic of 
the verse. 



MISS ANGLIN AND THE BARD 229 

Such will be the duke's palace in "Twelfth Night" 
when Miss Anglin gets to a theater with a modern 
lighting plant (if one exists in America). It is 
utterly simple — nothing on the stage but a couch, 
and behind that three gracefully arched windows 
letting out on southern landscape with poplars afar 
off. The color and lights are all — a pearly room, 
sunlight streaming in through the windows, the red 
robes of the duke upon his couch, a flash of gold, and 
then the gray of Viola. No foots, of course, should 
be used here, though they had to be in Montreal. 
The light should all stream in from the rear. A 
similar room, better lighted, made the last scene of 
"The Shrew." Here the light fell on the glass of 
the banquet table, on a heap of yellow fruit, on the 
rich Italian costumes of the courtiers, and it was 
so bright, so colorful, so beautifully composed, that 
it might almost have been a Paul Veronese painting 
come to life. Again, in "Twelfth Night," we are 
shown a scene at the palace consisting entirely of a 
narrow back drop, not twenty feet wide, on which 
is painted a garden shrine at the end of a poplar 
alley, and which is flanked by great brown curtains. 
On the stage is a couch, a tiny table, a small foun- 
tain of exotic design, not over two feet high. There 
is nothing else, not even a wing piece. Yet, in 



230 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

Montreal, the audience applauded this set as the cur- 
tain rose ! It is simplified scenery with a vengeance, 
yet pictorially beautiful and entirely satisfying. 

But it is in "Antony and Cleopatra" that Mr. 
Piatt has done his best work. His Roman scenes 
are for the most part set on half stage and made by 
hangings and a few Roman benches. They are, of 
course, chiefly tents. A bit of wall with a drop 
behind is Antony's garden. Behind them the great, 
towering yellow screens, out of which Mr. Piatt 
builds his dream of Egypt, are set up and left un- 
disturbed. 

Here again in his full sets he uses no wing pieces 
and no sky borders. The screens (which by a simple 
short panel set at right angles on either edge look 
tremendously solid) both block the sides and tower 
up suggestively out of sight, making sky borders 
needless. They are shifted, as Craig shifted his in 
the Moscow "Hamlet," to make either Cleopatra's 
palace or the interior of her monument, though it 
must not be supposed that with Mr. Piatt the screens 
are all. He also employs realistic furniture and 
sections of scenery and painted drops. Pale yellow- 
ish brown, like aged stone, they rear aloft in the 
monument interior with a ghostly, dim blue radi- 
ance in dagger blades between them, and amid the 



MISS ANGLIN AND THE BARD 231 

shadows at their base the figures mysteriously come 
and go, the reds and greens and purples of their 
robes like dragon flies in the dusk. In the monu- 
ment set the sides are boxed in, with a window on 
the right admitting a blue radiance, and at the rear 
two yellow walls, eight feet high, nearly meeting at 
a flight of steps in the center. Dim incense burners 
flicker at the feet of two gods upon these walls, and 
at the base of them the red robe of Charmian is like 
a splotch of blood. Cleopatra dies in the blue radi- 
ance from the window, and the purple robe thrown 
over Antony's body is like spilled wine. Out of the 
mystery at the base of the towering screens comes 
Caesar in scarlet and looks upon the scene. 

But even more imaginative and simpler is the 
setting for Cleopatra's palace roof, where the queen 
receives her first messenger, which Miss Anglin 
makes the first scene of Act II. Here there is abso- 
lutely nothing on the stage but a dim, towering 
screen at either side to mask the wings, a low wall 
nearly across the back, made by laying one screen 
on edge, a higher section of wall on the right, where- 
on reclines a figure in black silhouette, and beyond 
that the night sky. The illusion of height and of 
desert sand below and far off an unseen horizon is 
extraordinary. Cleopatra sits on the wall and the 



\ 



232 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

moonlight makes strange pools of color with her 
robes and jewels. Mardian, the eunuch, shines 
ebony in the silver illumination, and his gestures 
are those of an Egyptian relief. The silhouette 
raises up on its elbows and emits a long-drawn, start- 
ling cry, answered from far off and far below by the 
hail of the messenger. The scene, of course, de- 
pends chiefly on the electrician, for the actual set- 
tings are ridiculously simple and can be put in place 
in forty-eight seconds — three or four screens, with 
no furniture whatever. Yet the audiences applaud 
it instinctively. It is marvelously lovely. It drips 
with the hot Egyptian night, it carries the beholder at 
once up on the roof top above the desert plains. 

Curiously enough, Mr. Piatt has been least suc- 
cessful with "As You Like It," the most romantic 
of the plays. Here he has no architectural features 
to work with or to use as wing screens, and, being 
without a semi-circular horizon or sufficient height 
of fly gallery for unscreened drops (height cannot 
be depended on in provincial cities, and much of 
Mr. Piatt's scenery had to be cut down for the road), 
he has had to resort in his forest sets to the clumsy 
expedients of tradition, such as woodland wing 
pieces and foliage lowered on a tennis net to "solid" 
tree trunks above papier mache mossy stones. But 



MISS ANGLIN AND THE BARD 233 

at least he has avoided stage grass and paper flowers ! 
Perhaps his forests will be better when they can be 
lighted, as he intended, from above. But it seems 
to be a fact that the outdoor set is more difficult for 
the new impressionists to manage than the interior 
or partially outdoor. They have not yet solved the 
problem in any production the present writer has 
seen save in the case of a desert plain or other abso- 
lutely waste space to a low, distant horizon. 

However, the total impression of these four pro- 
ductions is one of great beauty, poetic illusion, and 
eminent fitness. Furthermore, Miss Anglin has pre- 
served a goodly proportion of the texts, and still con- 
trived to close the plays at a decent hour. She and 
Mr. Piatt have demonstrated that it is quite possible, 
then, to mount Shakespeare with adequate scenery 
and without long waits or textual slaughter, even 
on the American stage, handicapped as it is by lack 
of mechanical equipment. They both deserve our 
gratitude. 



\ 



DO YOU BELIEVE IN GOLD FAIRIES? 

"A Midsummer Night's Dream" — W attack's 
Theater, February /6, 19 14 

Granville Barker has now mounted "A Midsum- 
mer Night's Dream," at Wallack's Theater, and 
shown us, perhaps, the most unusual of all his pro- 
ductions. It will alternate with "Androcles and 
the Lion" throughout the season, other plays being 
added to the repertory later. It is amusing to see 
the confusion which has resulted. The poor New 
York public, totally unused to repertory since Mans- 
field died, can't get it through their silly heads that 
if a new play has been put on, the old one hasn't 
been withdrawn. 

There are two outstanding features of Mr. Bark- 
er's production of Shakespeare's musical comedy. 
The first is the fact that the method of staging per- 
mits the entire text to be played without a single 
cut, so that for the first time in the present writer's 
experience the story emerges as a coherent, clear and 
swiftly moving tale. This always does happen 

234 



GOLD FAIRIES 235 

when a Shakespearean play is acted without cuts. 
The bard knew his business. He didn't write scenes 
merely for the fun of it ; he wrote them to further his 
story. The only proper way to stage Shakespeare 
is the way which permits the use of the entire 
text. 

Hitherto it was supposed this could only be ac- 
complished on a bare stage, or else one which was 
equipped with elaborate mechanical devices, such as 
are found in Germany. Mr. Barker, without re- 
sorting to Reinhardt's revolving stage, and without 
stripping down to the bare boards, either, has solved 
the problem. 

The second outstanding feature of his production 
(which was "decorated" by Norman Wilkinson) is 
its incessant, bizarre, pictorial appeal. The eye is 
constantly surprised, constantly delighted, and 
though many of the settings are so different from any 
Shakespearean settings we have been accustomed to 
that they rather disturb the conventional-minded, 
nevertheless before the play is over they have estab- 
lished their own mood and even if this mood isn't 
what we have been accustomed to call Elizabethan, 
it is at least so potent that the play takes on a new 
lease of life. You leave the theater a bit bewil- 
dered, but admitting that, after all, you never knew 



236 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

before that "A Midsummer Night's Dream" could 
be such an interesting play. 

When the audience gathers in the theater, it sees 
the forestage (built out as far as old Row C), bathed 
in white light, and hanging just inside the prosce- 
nium, framed by a second proscenium of plain gold, 
like a box, a curtain of whitish color, with a frail 
green and gold floral design upon it. Just in front 
is a black seat, on a slightly raised platform. As 
trumpets sound, four negro slaves enter, by the pas- 
sage made by the elimination of the stage box, and 
they are followed by Theseus, Hippolyta and the 
court. The costumes are not the traditional Greek, 
but are full of barbaric color, which is perhaps more 
nearly authentic. The duke and his lady seat them- 
selves on the black seat, and the play begins. Just 
as the entrance has to be made with a certain amount 
of pageantry and music, so the stage has to be 
cleared in the same way. For the next scene, all 
that is required is the raising of the curtain. Six 
inches behind it is another curtain, painted with a 
quaint, formal representation of a window or two 
and a glimpse of the city. It is a cloth curtain, 
hanging in folds. Before this Bottom and his fel- 
lows plan their play. Then this curtain also rises, 
and behind it (it will be seen that so far the real 



GOLD FAIRIES 237 

stage, behind the proscenium, has not been used at 
all) is a third curtain, painted plain Nile green on 
the bottom edge, and above that deep blue, spangled 
all over with silver stars and a huge moon. The 
light is dimmed down, and the fairies enter. 

The fairies are the most bizarre things in the 
entire production. They are entirely clad in gold, 
with gold faces, gold hands, gold hair hanging in 
gold curls like shavings from a new yellow board. 
They are undeniably strange and at once differen- 
tiated from anything mortal. It may very well be 
questioned if they are the fairies of Shakespeare's 
vision. They are not ethereal, but solid as gilt 
statues, and stiff like statues, too, moving with 
quaint, automatic motions. It is to them that most 
of the objection will come. Yet they are undeni- 
ably tremendously picturesque and undeniably they 
do give the desired effect of difference. Perhaps, 
when we consider how few productions of this play 
have ever been able to create the mood of the super- 
natural, these stiff gold fairies are better than the 
more conventional representations, even if they do 
rather orientalize a purely Elizabethan play. Only 
Puck is not in gold. He is clad in bright scarlet, 
with yellow hair streaming back like a comet's tail. 

For the next scene the full stage is used at last. 



238 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

It is a very beautiful and strange set. Filling al- 
most the entire stage is a green mound rising to a 
dome in the exact center. Above this dome is sus- 
pended a quaint ring, or wheel, of purple grapes and 
leaves. Surrounding it on all three sides are long, 
upright strips of Nile green cloth, between which 
you see only an indefinite blueness. They are, pre- 
sumably, the forest trees. They go up out of sight, 
and of course all the illumination comes down from 
above. This is pure suggestion with a vengeance, 
and it is so lovely and so effective that the audience 
bursts into applause. Of course, the green mound 
is Titania's fairy bower, and here most of the re- 
mainder of the action in the forest takes place, with 
the characters vanishing and reappearing amid the 
towering strips of green cloth. 

When the action in the forest is over, the play is 
practically over, too, and here Mr. Barker makes his 
long break (there has been but one very brief inter- 
mission before). It is long after ten when the last 
act is begun. Again the full stage is used. The 
forestage, as always, is bare. From immediately 
behind the proscenium rises a flight of jet black steps, 
all across the stage, to a height of six feet or more, 
and on that elevation stands a forest of round silver 
columns supporting white crossbeams through which 



GOLD FAIRIES 239 

you glimpse the night sky. Black and silver — that 
is all. The duke and the lovers and the court re- 
cline, Roman fashion, on couches at the very front 
of the fore-stage, their backs to the audience, and 
upon the platform, against the black and silver, 
Bottom and his friends enact their Weber & Fields 
burlesque. Then all the humans depart, and in 
come the gold fairies, and to an old Elizabethan air 
weave a dance amid the forest of silver pillars, 
blessing the house. One by one they go out, like 
the candles in the "Farewell Symphony," till only 
Puck is left, in his red dress, before a yellow curtain 
which has descended, in a dim radiance, to speak the 
epilogue. 

The entire production holds the interest without 
a break, if only for its strangeness. It is played 
at a tremendously rapid pace, which too often blurs 
the beauty of the verse; but that is about the only 
flaw in its accomplishment of its purpose. The cos- 
tumes are of rare richness in color, and every move 
of every player brings some fresh pictorial delight, 
as these costumes group and melt and group again 
against harmoniously colored backgrounds. All the 
music is old English, and so are the dances. Men- 
delssohn has been mercifully abandoned. The act- 
ing, too, is excellent. Actors play leading parts who 



240 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

were almost supers in "Androcles" and vice versa. 
Mr. Barker has a true stock, or repertory company. 
But best of all the performances is that of a man 
named Ernest Cossart as Bottom. He does no mug- 
ging. He doesn't try to be funny. He doesn't 
even try to be uncouth and ugly. He is just vain- 
glorious and stupid in a most natural, almost quiet 
way — and consequently he is capital. However, 
all the actors in the mechanic's drama are unconscious 
and hence delightfully humorous. This usually 
dull feature of "A Midsummer Night's Dream" — 
dull because usually so forced and laborious — is in 
the Barker production one of the most fascinating 
features. 

The production will arouse controversy (which 
is good for business). But whether it jibes with 
our preconceived notions or not, there is no denying 
its unity of effect, its rare pictorial beauty and its 
power to hold the attention unflaggingly, sending 
you from the theater with lovely pictures in your 
memory and a sense of strangeness, as of a dream. 
After all, what more can you ask? 



"THE TEMPEST" WITHOUT SCENERY 

"The Tempest' 9 — Century Theater ', April 24^ igi6 

The Tercentenary celebration of Shakespeare's 
death was observed in New York by productions of 
the poet's plays in no less than three manners — not 
including, of course, the amateur variations! Sir 
Herbert Tree, at the New Amsterdam, produced 
"King Henry VIII" after the late Victorian fashion, 
with operatic pageants and conventionally excellent 
scenery. At the Criterion Theatre; under the man- 
agement of James K. Hackett, Richard .Ordynski 
(pupil of Reinhardt) produced "The Merry Wives 
of Windsor" in the manner of modern Germany. 
The scenery, heavy and markedly composed into 
pattern of design and color, was painted by Joseph 
Urban; and an incessant bustle, a driving pace, a 
fluid and highly mannered series of forming and 
melting and reforming tableaux, distinguished this 
production, giving that sense of "style," in the Con- 
tinental use of the term. Finally, at the Century 

Theatre (formerly the New Theatre), John Corbin 

241 



242 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

and the actor, Louis Calvert, under the patronage of 
the Drama Society, put on "The Tempest" in some- 
thing approximating Elizabethan fashion. The 
full text is spoken, there are but two intermissions, 
and the only scenery employed, excepting a few 
property trees and the like, is disclosed in the little 
alcove under the Elizabethan balcony at the rear, 
which serves first as the ship's cabin and later as 
Prospero's cave. 

There could hardly be a better test of Shake- 
speare's dramatic power. He survives all three 
methods of treatment, and each brings out some- 
thing from his work which the other two miss. 
Tree's production catches the pageantry. Ordyn- 
ski's production records the speed and pictorial pat- 
tern. But the production on the bare stage we our- 
self like best of all, for it spurns all other aids and 
stimuli, and compels the imagination by the sheer 
power of the actor's art and the poet's verbal magic. 

There is a great deal of talk about what Shake- 
speare would do if he were writing today. "Of 
course, he would employ scenery," people declare. 
Therefor, is the implication, let us employ it for 
him. Undoubtedly he would employ scenery; but 
he would also employ quite a different technique in 
the conduct of his story, and he would write in prose. 



"THE TEMPEST" 243 

Should we, therefor, cut his plays to pieces, and 
reduce his blank verse to common conversation — 
which is what most of our managers and actors be- 
tween them actually do*? After all, the plays were 
written for a stage practically bare, and on such a 
stage they are most effectively performed, just as 
"Don Giovanni" is most effectively performed in a 
theatre, not an opera house, with a small orchestra 
and a harpsichord. Also, they are thus most eco- 
nomically performed, and have the maximum of 
educational value. Mr. Corbin has done a fine 
work in returning "The Tempest" to the stage in 
its integrity, for the first time, he maintains, in three 
hundred years. After the Restoration, we know, 
it was dressed up into a kind of opera, and in these 
latter years, save for a revival at the hands of 
Augustin Daly in 1897, it has slept the dusty sleep 
of the admired classics. 

In the present revival, several able actors are con- 
cerned. Mr. Calvert plays Prospero with some- 
thing too little of royal dignity, but with an evident 
love for the poet's metres. Walter Hampden is the 
Caliban, and a gruesome, grovelling beast he is. 
Cecil Yapp is the Trinculo, and George Hassell 
the Stephano. These two men are artists, Hassell 
especially being almost unrivalled on our stage as 



244 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

an unctious low comedian who, at the same time, 
holds himself in fine restraint and can touch other 
stops on occasion with ease and deftness. It is un- 
likely that the comic scenes between Caliban, Trin- 
culo and Stephano have ever been much better 
played than in the present production. The ro- 
mance of Ferdinand and Miranda fades a little, at 
the hands of a tame actress, before this rich, ripe 
fooling, just as the fairy spell of Ariel evaporates 
when Fania Marinoff, the Ariel, speaks or sings. 
Ariel is, perhaps, one of the most difficult parts in 
Shakespeare, because of the diversity of its require- 
ments. The player must be light of foot as a 
thistle-down, with the tongue of an angel, the voice 
of a bird, the elfin charm of a Maude Adams. 

The goddesses and nymphs in the masque Mr. 
Corbin caused to disappear behind a curtain of hiss- 
ing steam, finding his warrant for so doing in Shake- 
speare's own stage directions and in his investiga- 
tions of the Elizabethan theatre. There is no 
cause to quarrel with him. If a woman plays 
Miranda, we are already not strictly Elizabethan. 
A little modern steam may be readily forgiven, sup- 
posing it could be proved that Shakespeare didn't 
employ steam himself. What is here sought is the 
preservation of the text in its integrity, and the ap- 



"THE TEMPEST" 245 

peal to the imagination through the medium of the 
poet's verse and story. There is no use denying 
that in the masque, where an appeal to the eye is 
frankly made, we miss the richness of the modern 
stage. But for the rest of the play we miss it not 
at all. Shakespeare has his way with us, making of 
bare boards his magic island, of two box trees in a 
pot his tangled forest, of actors speaking immortal 
verse his summons into fairy-land. One at least 
of Shakespeare's plays ought to be produced each 
year in this simple manner, with the best actors pro- 
curable. It is a splendid stimulus to our pampered 
imaginations. 



SECTION IV 
PLAYS, PLAYERS, AND ACTING 



OUR COMEDY OF BAD MANNERS 

igio 

There is a class of drama known to those who 
love to put tags upon everything as the comedy of 
manners. The term is now little used except to 
describe the drama of the eighteenth century, 
Sheridan's "School for Scandal" being the crowning 
example of the comedy of manners. This particu- 
lar division of the drama is thus defined in Henne- 
quin's "Art of Playwriting" : 

"In the comedy of manners especial attention 
is paid to character drawing, and each character is 
made the representative of a certain trait or passion. 
In this way conventional or stock characters are de- 
veloped, such as the dissipated son, the rich and 
miserly uncle, the cruel father, the intriguing ser- 
vant, and so on, which are used over and over again. 
Comedies of manners are of a quiet and domestic 
character and deal with the follies of society." 

The ordinary mind, contemplating this definition, 

249 



250 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

is a little perplexed to know why half the comedies 
it sees to-day are not comedies of manners. At any 
rate, stock characters are developed which are used 
over and over again. And the ordinary mind, per- 
haps, contemplating the American stage, is inspired 
to wonder if, even within the strict limits of this 
definition, we are not developing a comedy of bad 
manners. 

One of the early types developed for stage use to 
symbolize the American was Asa Trenchard, in the 
Englishman, Tom Taylor's, play, "Our American 
Cousin," a comedy afterward rechristened "Lord 
Dundreary," and acted for many years by the elder 
Sothern. Asa Trenchard was an uncouth lout, let 
us trust in reality never typical at all. But he 
flourished in drama till W. J. Florence acted Bard- 
well Slote and John T. Raymond acted Mark 
Twain's Mulberry Sellers. The manners of these 
stage characters were little better, though they were 
vastly more entertaining. Their more recent suc- 
cessors are Joshua Whitcomb (kindly and sweet old 
grandfather of a loutish brood of by-goshing stage 
children) and Daniel Voorhees Pike in "The Man 
from Home." With all his differences, Daniel 
Voorhees Pike is the legitimate stage descendant of 
Asa Trenchard; he is simply the latter-day example 



OUR COMEDY OF BAD MANNERS 251 

of the type labeled "an American" in our comedy of 
bad manners. 

But we are rapidly developing another type 
labeled "an American" which seriously threatens the 
preeminence of the old. This type is being devel- 
oped by the younger playwrights, headed, perhaps, 
by that peerless leader, George M. Cohan. It is 
most often urban instead of rural, but even more 
than the old, the new drama which displays the type 
is our comedy of bad manners. These bad manners 
are not peculiar to our drama; they permeate our 
fiction also. Mr. Cohan's skillful and amusing 
play, "Get-Rich-Quick Wallingford," is made from 
a story said to. have been enormously popular in a 
magazine which affirms a circulation equal to half 
the population of the original thirteen colonies. 
This new type is a brisk, resourceful, humorous, 
slangy young person, fresh in every sense of the 
word, always of low- or middle-class origin, without 
any manners but bad ones, quick-witted but super- 
ficial, devoid of fine breeding, distinction, charm. 
He overruns our stage just now. The plays of 
Edgar Selwyn, of George M. Cohan, of James 
Forbes, of George Ade, of Henry W. Blossom, and 
of many others, give him a field for his activities. 
Always he triumphs. Always he is the hero. Al- 



252 PLAYS AND FLAYERS 

ways he is the type "an American," the new type 
in our comedy of bad manners. 

There is something veracious about him, too. 
One meets him on the street — on Broadway, at any 
rate. One sees him at the races and ball games. 
He is loafing round the post office after supper in 
our smaller towns. There are some of us, to be 
sure, who would rather see him educated than dra- 
matized. But his mother wit is shrewd and amus- 
ing, "he has good stuff in him," as the saying goes; 
and dramatized he has been, manners and all. And 
to play him a race of actors has been developed 
whose "personalities" seem to fit the demands of 
this character. His manners are reproduced to the 
life. Grace and distinction of bearing and deport- 
ment have become almost a lost art with many, if 
not most, of our younger actors. Our comedy of 
bad manners is no longer the narrow definition of 
a certain kind of play; it is a description of much 
that goes on upon our stage. 

All of us who care for the amenities of life, who 
esteem correct deportment in its proper place, who 
are charmed by grace and distinction and hurt by 
its absence from plays where it belongs, have suf- 
fered only too often from the prevalent bad man- 
ners of the American theatre. For these bad 



OUR COMEDY OF BAD MANNERS 253 

manners, of course, the type of drama we have just 
described is not alone responsible, though its pop- 
ularity has undoubtedly tended to encourage the 
more flippant side of the players and to discourage 
the assiduous cultivation of correct deportment, of 
good manners. Our present stage managers are a 
contributory cause. They do not — and too many 
of them cannot — instruct the players in carriage and 
deportment, nor insist upon correct speech and 
graceful bearing. The producing managers, also, 
are to blame, because, in the first place, most of 
them mount more plays than can possibly be pro- 
duced with proper attention and rehearsal, and in 
the second place because they are themselves too 
often quite blind to the charm of good manners and 
the value of distinction. Finally — and in the last 
analysis chiefly — we, the public, are to blame, be- 
cause we ourselves place too little emphasis on 
charm and distinction in our judgment of the play- 
ers (as in our judgment of our fellow men), esteem- 
ing some too highly who lack these graces, esteem- 
ing the few who possess them not enough, and in 
general showing too little vigorous insistence in our 
drama on a final note of style, of elegance, of good 
breeding. 

A popular actress, herself a woman of unques- 



254 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

tioned breeding and distinction, whose plays invar- 
iably call for a touch of the same qualities in others 
of the company, particularly in the leading man, 
recently complained to the present writer that it 
was almost impossible to secure an American actor 
any longer who could qualify in this important re- 
spect. She mentioned Bruce McRae and Charles 
Cherry as two, of course, whom she would like to 
secure, but both of whom were elsewhere engaged. 
Frank Worthing was also otherwise engaged. She 
was forced to send to England for a leading man. 
Both Mr. Cherry and Mr. McRae, it might be re- 
marked, may be claimed more by England than 
America. 

Charles Cherry and Bruce McRae (who is a 
nephew of that most polished and delightful of 
gentlemen and actors, Sir Charles Wyndham), 
neither of them actors of any considerable range or 
power, are, indeed, capital examples of what too 
many of our players are not. They have the charm 
and grace of bearing which come from familiarity 
with the usages of good society; they have the ease 
of gentlemen and the distinction of culture. If 
either of them were called upon to portray a man 
of the polite world, he would not come out on the 
stage, as one of our prominent players actually did 



OUR COMEDY OF BAD MANNERS 255 

a few seasons ago, wearing a pink waistcoat with 
his evening dress. He would not, as so many of 
our actors do, affect the latest ultra-fads of the 
Broadway tailors — one button to his sack coat, 
turned-up coat cuffs, and all the rest. He would 
not stand like a gawk in the presence of ladies, his 
hands thrusting out like the Scarecrow's in the "The 
Wizard of Oz." He would not sit down before 
the ladies were seated, nor fail to rise when they 
enter the room, nor hitch up his trousers above his 
boot tops, nor talk with the Broadway flat "a" and 
the Broadway "guerl" for girl and "puerfectly" for 
perfectly and "minut" to denote a period of sixty 
seconds. His tone would not be that of a rent col- 
lector come on an unpleasant duty, or the gardener 
making love to the cook. He would, in short, bear 
himself like a gentleman. 

Lester Wallack, himself a prince of deportment 
on the stage, with that grace and poise and dashing 
charm of bearing so essential for the true portrayal 
of romantic roles, once rebuked an actor at rehearsal 
for pulling up his trousers when he sat down. 
"You are playing a gentleman now," he said, "and 
you are supposed to have more than one pair of 
trousers." The point is not unimportant. Noth- 
ing is more ridiculous and fatal to illusion than the 



256 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

vain actor's preening of his person on the stage, and 
his middle-class care of his wardrobe in the presence 
of spectators. 

In contrast to such careful attention to the amen- 
ities by Lester Wallack, one of our present-day 
stage managers, who mounts many important plays 
for a leading firm of producers, permitted a minor 
actor in a drama translated from the French to 
throw an entire scene out of key by his total lack 
of manners. This actor, in the role of a jeweler, 
was supposed to call upon a fine lady, to see about 
the purchase of her jewels. It was a part of his 
trade to purchase jewels from fine ladies and to be 
man of the world enough never to disclose by a hint 
that he suspected the real cause for the sale. He 
was supposed to enter almost as a servant, bland, 
obsequious, polite, deferential. But the stage man- 
ager permitted the American actor who essayed the 
part to enter like a bailiff come to make an eviction. 
The actress, fighting to create an air of distinction, 
of breeding, for her part, to create the atmosphere 
of an old, aristocratic household, was, of course, 
hopelessly baffled by this performance. The at- 
mosphere evaporated. The last whiff of it went 
up the chimney when the actor deliberately sat down 
in her presence, she standing up. Bad manners 



OUR COMEDY OF BAD MANNERS 257 

could go no further in the destruction of illusion. 
And this bit of boorish ignorance was sanctioned by 
a stage manager to whom are entrusted some of our 
leading productions. The actor, if he did not know 
any better, should, of course, have been told. It 
would have been comparatively simple at least to 
make him remain standing in the lady's presence. 
Unfortunately, there was nobody with good enough 
manners to tell him. 

In Henry Austin Clapp's "Reminiscences of a 
Dramatic Critic" is the following sentence: 

"I remember hearing it said, at a time near the 
close of the Great War, by some men who were 
native here, and to the best Boston manner born, 
that Edward Everett, A.B., A.M., LL.D., ex-Gov- 
ernor of Massachusetts, ex-United States Senator 
from Massachusetts, ex-President of Harvard Col- 
lege, ex-Minister to England, litterateur, orator, 
statesman, was, in respect of distinction of manners, 
in a class with but one other of his fellow citizens : 
that other one appeared in the local directory as 
'Warren, William, comedian, boards 2 Bulfinch 
Place.' " 

William Warren, comedian, was one of America's 
greatest actors. He was equally at home in high 
comedy and low, equally convincing as the fine 



258 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

gentleman or the country lout, as Sir Peter Teazle 
or Dogberry. He could slough off his manners 
when the part demanded. That is not so difficult. 
But it is not so easy to put fine manners on, when 
you do not possess them. With Warren they were 
as much an instinct as personal cleanliness. He did 
not acquire them with any thought of their being a 
stock in trade. But a stock in trade they inevitably 
were. They raised him to a foremost position on 
the American stage, because they endowed his high 
comedy impersonations with a convincing style and 
an irresistible charm, they gave him the final note 
of personal distinction. 

How many of our players to-day can you recall 
offhand who can play in high comedy with con- 
vincing style and the charm of fine bearing? You 
think, of course, of Miss Maxine Elliott, of Miss 
Grace George, of Miss Marlowe, of Mrs. Fiske, 
of Miss Barrymore and Miss Anglin — all of them 
practised players, several of them trained in "the 
old school." You think of certain other practised 
players, such as Miss Crosman and Miss Irving. 
Of the less practised women you think, it may be, 
of Miss Janet Beecher and of her sister, Miss Olive 
Wyndham, at the New Theatre, who speaks so 
beautifully and carries herself so well that you are 



OUR COMEDY OF BAD MANNERS 259 

inclined to forgive her slim technical equipment for 
the suggestion of emotions. Perhaps you think, 
too, of Miss Crystal Heme and two or three more : 
and then your memory begins to waver. You begin 
to recall play after play where fine ladies were de- 
picted with every shade of nasal speech, affected 
pose (our actresses' idea of gentility being a com- 
plete absence of naturalness), gawky gesture and 
uncouth manners. You begin to recall the pain of 
drawing-rooms peopled with folk totally lacking in 
distinction, of romantic scenes without charm, with- 
out grace, without glamor. 

Again, you turn to the men. The case is even 
worse, for manners come more naturally to the 
ladies. You think, of course, of Mr. McRae and 
Mr. Cherry, of Mr. A. E. Matthews, the young 
English actor now appearing in "The Importance 
of Being Earnest," of Frank Worthing, of Frank 
Gillmore, now at the New Theatre, who has played 
Romeo alluringly and the Prince in "Such a Little 
Queen" with a genuine suggestion of royal birth 
and breeding, of Walter Hampden, of Richard Ben- 
nett perhaps, who is a character actor also, of George 
Nash, who played so beautifully in "The Harvest 
Moon," and of Mr. Sothern, Mr. Skinner, Mr. Mil- 
ler. But Mr. Nash, Mr. Sothern, Mr. Skinner 



26o PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

and Mr. Miller belong by rights to an elder school 
of training. Or course, you can name some others 
for yourself — and then again your memory begins 
to waver. The picture comes of white-gloved 
hands thrusting hugely forth from black sleeves, 
embarrassed about what to do with themselves, of 
flip, unmannerly speech, of nasal inflections, mis- 
pronunciations, lack of social distinction, of ease 
and grace and style. You think of a long proces- 
sion of comedies of bad manners. 

It is characteristic of a certain type of jingo 
* 'Americanism" to consider good manners as a sign 
of social snobbishness and to regard personal grace 
and distinction as a cover for mental and moral 
sloth, even a cover for the idle rich who ride down 
Fifth Avenue with lap dogs. This attitude is both 
a misapprehension of what constitutes good man- 
ners and personal distinction, and a gross flattery of 
those who ride down Fifth Avenue with lap dogs. 
Good manners are the outward and visible sign of 
inward and abiding regard for the finer feelings of 
others. Personal distinction is the result, and can 
only be the result, of personal familiarity with fine 
thoughts, fine people, and a beautiful way of living. 
Because, through ignorance and unfamiliarity with a 
more finished society, many sturdy American virtues 



OUR COMEDY OF BAD MANNERS 261 

are found in men and women of uncouth manners, 
it is by no means logical to infer that those virtues 
result from the uncouthness, or that the lack of un- 
couthness implies in all others a lack of the virtues. 
Yet that illogical inference is exactly what too 
many of us are prone to make, until, finally, un- 
couthness, bad manners, a lack of personal distinc- 
tion, have come somehow to stand as a symbol of 
our national virtues, and the G. M. Cohan type of 
"fresh" young man is the hero of our new romance. 
You cannot separate the national stage from the 
national life. As we sow in taste, we reap in 
drama, so long as the stage is left entirely to the 
guidance of a strictly commercial management. 
The inability of our players adequately to perform 
plays which call for the finer graces of speech and 
manner, whether native dramas, dramas of the 
European aristocracy, or comedies and romances of 
an elder day, results, of course, from lack of proper 
training and direction ; and that lack, in turn, results 
from the lack of any imperative demand. For the 
brisk, veracious, slangy, nasal performance of a 
Cohan farce, running two hundred nights on Broad- 
way to packed houses, and consequently exalting 
that species of drama and performance as something 
to be emulated by writers and actors and producers, 



262 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

we pay by the murderous performance of Bataille's 
'The Scandal," or of "Decorating Clementine," or 
of a score of other dramas, native or adapted, real- 
istic or poetic, grave or gay, which imperatively de» 
mand for illusion style and distinction of the players. 

Now, style and distinction, personal grace and 
charm of manners, are the very technique of fine 
living as well as its flower. So far as they are 
unesteemed and uncultivated in American life, so 
far is that life crude, deficient. So far as they are 
absent from the representation of life upon the 
stage, just so far is the stage crude, deficient. From 
the realistic depiction of frontier society, of sordid- 
ness, of middle-class existence as it is frequently 
spent, they are properly absent. But this is not the 
whole of life, even in America. Nor is the realistic 
depiction of surrounding conditions the whole mis- 
sion of drama. The highest, as well as the lowest, 
deserves a place upon the stage : and upon the stage, 
too, belong the charm of romance, the glitter of high 
comedy, the sensuous appeal of poetry, of verbal 
beauty, of sheer esthetic charm. 

For these things style and distinction are required. 
The sparkle of high comedy can be scattered only by 
lips trained to speak properly, by players trained to 
ease and grace of pose; the glamour of romance can 



OUR COMEDY OF BAD MANNERS 263 

be cast only by players of high bearing, personal 
charm and chivalric manners; verbal beauty may 
only exert its spell when a love of verbal beauty 
sits at the speaker's heart; and, in the most realistic 
depiction of actual life, there can be no truth to our 
finer-bred and more intellectual society unless we 
have actors of sufficient culture and worldly wisdom 
to comport with their parts. 

Not only must our stage for its full and rounded 
development show us the comedy of good manners 
as well as of bad manners, but by so doing it can 
exert a considerable influence upon our society. 
Especially over the minds of the young, the stage 
has a tremendous influence; in certain quarters of 
our larger cities it is the supreme influence. Could 
the stage display more personal distinction, could 
it put forth the charm of good manners, of style and 
elegance, could it show the grace of correctly spoken 
English, it would not, perhaps, so entirely hold the 
mirror up to American nature (as that nature is ex- 
pressed in American manners), but it would make 
American nature more worthy to be mirrored. 

How may this result be brought about? 

It may be most practic'ally and effectively 
brought about by the direct influence of more culti- 
vated men in the managerial department of the 



264 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

playhouse. Fancy the influence, not of one New 
Theatre, but of a score of playhouses where a score 
of managers set themselves each a standard, picking 
and drilling their players to comport with it. 

The question reduces itself once again to the 
statement we have more than once iterated: That 
the man who essays to become a theatrical manager 
takes upon himself the responsibilities of a public 
servant, for what he produces will inevitably influ- 
ence the public taste for good or evil; that no man 
can produce above his own level; that his works 
will have style and distinction only in so far as he 
possesses those qualities; and, therefore, that a stage 
which shall exert a steady influence for better taste 
and better manners must be managed by better men, 
men who are not of the "common average," but 
above it. The advent of more such men into the 
theatrical "business" is earnestly to be desired. 
We need them quite as much as we need play- 
wrights. May we not look to the newly awakened 
interest in the practical theatre among our colleges 
to produce managers as well as authors? Why the 
management of a fine art should be given over so 
exclusively as it is to something generally less than 
the "common average" remains a reproach — and a 
mystery. 



THE REAL FOES OF THE SERIOUS 
DRAMA 

ign 

As a new season opens in the playhouse, we 
might do well to pause and consider our attitude 
toward the play, for it is our attitude toward the 
play, quite as much as it is the players or the play- 
wright, which ultimately determines what kind of 
a drama we shall have. 

The real foes of a serious, effective and socially 
important national drama in America are not the 
managers, who are glad enough to produce any kind 
of a play demanded — if somebody will pick it out 
for them ! The real foes are not the frivolous thou- 
sands who prefer musical comedy or vaudeville — 
"tired business men," drummers, ladies on shopping 
expeditions, and their like. Such frivolous folk we 
have always with us, always have had, and always 
will have. Indeed, the best of us are frivolous now 
and then, and the man who says he doesn't like a 

good musical comedy we regard in very much the 

265 



266 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

same way as the man who says he doesn't like onions 
— as a liar. No, the real foes of a serious, effective 
drama in America, which shall rank as literature on 
the one hand and as a social force on the other, are 
the thousands of good men and women — more 
women than men, unfortunately — whose attitude 
toward the stage is represented by their reiterated 
•remark in the face of a serious drama, "There's 
enough unhappiness in the world without showing 
it on the stage." 

The attitude of these people toward the stage is 
only too apt to be their attitude toward all art; but 
it is only the theatre which concerns us here. Who 
are these people? They are not the frivolous, the 
unintelligent. They are more often than not most 
serious-minded, and even pursuers of culture at 
Chautauquan conventions, middle-aged and elderly 
women, passionate workers in the church, seekers 
after the salvation of the heathen and their pastor's 
health, rigorous adherents to the strictest standards 
of morality — of such are the foes of a serious drama. 
Men of solid standing in the community, of mature 
judgment, of high civic ideals — of such are the foes 
of a serious drama. Younger women, neither 
frivolous nor unintelligent, but just ordinary girls 
grown up into the responsibilities of motherhood 



REAL FOES OF SERIOUS DRAMA 267 

with comfortable homes and a wholesome desire for 
the occasional pleasures of the theatre — of such are 
the foes of a serious drama. They are its foes be- 
cause they are the very people who should support 
it. Instead they, whose attitude toward life is one 
of sane recognition of its gravity, assume toward the 
stage an attitude of evasion, and demand of art not 
honesty and seriousness, but a pretty story which 
shall ignore the facts of life and take account only 
of the fictions of romance; which shall, at any rate, 
if it takes account of the facts of life, select only 
the pleasant facts. 

A preacher in a certain Pennsylvania city once 
preached a sermon describing the squalors and pri- 
vations among the mill and factory laborers and 
their families at the other end of the town. After 
the service a good lady of his congregation came up 
to him reproachfully. "Why do you preach such 
sermons?" she asked. "You have harrowed me all 
up! I come to church to be spiritually uplifted and 
soothed." 

That, we fear, is the attitude of a great many 
good ladies, and not a few good men, toward the 
drama. 

We have said that such people are the real foes 
of a serious national drama, a drama that shall be 



268 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

literature and shall be of social value, because they 
are most often the people who, in the community 
at large, represent the solid element of average in- 
telligence and civic service. They are the ones who 
support the church, the village improvement society, 
the Y. M. C. A., the boys' club; who keep their 
lawns and their children in order; who are, whether 
rich or poor, the people at whom our patriotic 
orators proudly point. They are honest in their 
lives; they are dishonest in their art. They declare 
that they "want to get away from unpleasant things 
in the theatre" — and they do not mean that they 
want vaudeville or musical farce, because they are 
not the supporters of stage frivolity. They mean 
that they want drama which is pleasantly romantic, 
which has no relation to the stern facts of contem- 
porary society. They want, like the good lady in 
church, to be soothed. Thus the very class of the 
population which, in the practical matters of life, 
may be relied upon for support, in the matter of 
art cannot be relied upon at all. These people do 
not regard art as a practical matter of life, but as 
something quite apart from life, and of consequent 
unimportance. That is their error. Once con- 
vince them that art, especially the drama, is of quite 
as much living and practical importance as Chinese 



REAL FOES OF SERIOUS DRAMA 269 

missions or the minister's salary or the trimming of 
the sidewalks, and we fancy an astonishing change 
would come over our stage; there would be a wid- 
ening and deepening of the scope and appeal of our 
serious drama, due to the new encouragement and 
support. 

But how convince them? The task sometimes 
seems hopeless, because there is something per- 
versely illogical in their attitude. We have said 
they regard art as unimportant. That is not en- 
tirely true. They are willing to admit it possesses 
a practical power for harm, but they cannot see how 
it can, conversely, possess a practical power for 
good by treating seriously the serious facts of life. 
"The Easiest Way," for example, or "Mrs. War- 
ren's Profession" — to name two exceptionally un- 
pleasant plays which the sentiment of these people 
succeeded in forbidding, one in Boston, one in 
New York — are not to be tolerated because "no 
good can come of showing such things on the 
stage; there's enough of such unhappiness in the 
world," and our young people "will learn from 
such plays a great many things they shouldn't 
know." 

Just how far this attitude is inspired by a real 
regard for our young people, or how far it is in- 



2yo PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

spired by an aversion to face the unhappy facts of 
life when presented in so concrete and vivid terms, 
is a question we need not go into here. The truth 
remains that it is not the part of wisdom to adapt 
all our drama to the young-person, but to pick what 
plays our young shall go to see. Thus we dispose 
of the young-person argument. 

When we come to the argument that "there's 
enough unhappiness in the world, and no good can 
come of depicting it on the stage," we can only 
answer that so long as there is so much unhappiness 
in the world, it is our duty to keep people reminded 
of it, by every means in our power, until they are 
driven to remedy matters. It is a psychological 
banality that man is roused to action much less 
readily by indirect than direct stimulus. We read 
without a shudder of 100,000 Hindoos dying of 
famine in India. But if a family we know, in our 
town, should starve, we would cringe with the hor- 
ror of it. We have read, most of us, of insufficient 
wages paid to working girls, and the dreadful moral 
result; but how many of us have been roused to see 
what remedial steps we, personally, can take? 
How real an impression has it made upon us? De- 
pict such conditions truthfully on the stage, in the 
vivid terms of the theatre, let your audience become 



REAL FOES OF SERIOUS DRAMA 271 

absorbed in your story, caught up into the lives of 
your characters, and you have done the next best 
thing, for purposes of rousing response, to striking 
your audience directly through the tragedy of some 
one near or dear to them. Most Englishmen have 
never been in prison, and they remained indifferent 
to the abuses of the English prison system till 
Mr. Galsworthy's play, "Justice," was produced. 
There is unhappiness enough in the world, enough 
and to spare, but Mr. Galsworthy proposed that 
there should be a little less, so he roused the nation 
by a drama. That is the good which can come of 
"putting such things on the stage." 

So much for the social side of the serious drama. 
No less important is the more strictly literary side. 
No artist who is worthy of the name writes or paints 
or carves or composes in a constant spirit of levity, 
or with a disregard of the relations between his work 
and the facts of nature. Art, for the genuine artist, 
is not play; it is serious business, the business of 
recording in coherent and significant form his ob- 
servations of the world about him and his sense of 
their drift and significance. No enduring art has 
ever been created, nor ever will be created, which 
is not the artist's conscious comment on life; and 
the highest pleasure which we derive from a work 



272 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

of art is the pleasure of realizing its truth, expand- 
ing our own experience of life by living thus vicar- 
iously in an art work, and gaining through the 
artist's eyes a new sense of beauty or of power. 
Such art is only created by large-minded and serious 
men. Such men can only create it when they are 
unhampered in their choice of subject, when they 
are permitted to follow their natural bent, write of 
what interests them, paint what seems to them worth 
painting. And just so long as the public puts a 
check on the freedom of the playwright's choice by 
refusing to enjoy or to patronize plays which are 
not sweet, romantic fictions, just so long will a true 
literary drama remain in abeyance, true artists of 
intellectual power and serious interest in the prob- 
lems of life turn to other fields of endeavor than 
the stage. 

It is a curious fact that the older generation 
especially, which mourns a decline of Shakespeare 
from the stage (though, as a matter of fact, Shake- 
speare is still played more often than any other 
dramatist), which sighs for the good old days of 
Booth and Forrest, for the days when the drama 
was "sweet" and "wholesome," forget, or cannot 
comprehend, that the old order changeth, and that 
our "unpleasant" realistic plays of to-day are the 



REAL FOES OF SERIOUS DRAMA 273 

modern counterpart of the elder tragedies in which 
Booth and Forrest thundered. 

No good can possibly come of reviving "Vir- 
ginius" to-day, because the theatregoers of to-day 
don't want "Virginius" — it bores them. Since our 
modern drama is intimate and realistic, our modern 
tragedies must be intimate and realistic, and their 
subject matter must be what is tragic in modern life. 
If the good souls who once accepted "Virginius" but 
now reject "The Easiest Way" or "Mid-Channel" 
would only pause to consider the question fairly, 
they would see that the only reason why "Vir- 
ginius" isn't as unhappy and unpleasant as the 
modern plays is because it is a story of ancient Rome 
instead of modern New York or London — it is 2,000 
years in the past. We fancy that the lust of Appius 
Claudius is no more "pleasant" a thing to contem- 
plate, per se, than that of the broker in "The Easiest 
Way" or of the husband in Brieux's play, "The 
Three Daughters of Monsieur Dupont." We 
fancy that certain physical facts are quite as frankly 
suggested by "Virginius" (or "The Winter's Tale," 
for that matter, or "Othello") as by the modern 
plays of Pinero and Shaw. But the difference is 
that girls to-day are not in danger of seduction by 
Appius Claudius; a great many of them are exposed 



274 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

to the perils of the Tenderloin of New York, to the 
perils of marriage, of sweatshops and department 
stores, of idleness and vanity. If we may have the 
stage depiction of ancient perils passed, by what 
logic can any theatre-goer deny us the depiction of 
present perils? There is no logic in it. The fact 
is that the depiction of ancient perils did not trouble 
us because they were far away; the modern tragedies 
"harrow us up," like the preacher's sermon, because 
they are near to us, and so we do not like them. 
We are cowards in art. After all, none but the 
brave deserve a literature. 

An inevitable accompaniment of the opposition 
to serious modern social drama is the argument that 
by tolerating such plays you will "banish beauty 
from the stage," murk it o'er with gloom and de- 
pression. You will do, of course, nothing of the 
kind. In the first place, the men of the largest 
purpose, the finest human sympathy — that is, the 
men best fitted to write such drama — are very fre- 
quently the men also best fitted for comedy, by 
their very qualities of sympathy. Pinero of "The 
Thunderbolt" is also the Pinero of "Trelawny of 
the Wells" and "Sweet Lavendar." Barrie of 
"The Twelve-Pound Look" is the Barrie of "Peter 
Pan." It further follows that the qualities required 



REAL FOES OF SERIOUS DRAMA 275 

of an audience to appreciate serious social drama are 
the very qualities which are required for the ap- 
preciation of satire. Still further, the depth and 
richness of the humor in any literature is most fre- 
quently measured by the depth and richness of its 
serious plays or novels, even when the two are not 
united in one man, as in a Thackeray or Shakespeare. 

The world is not all bad ; men love to laugh ; other 
men love to make them laugh; we still have ro- 
mance, happiness, poetry, and we shall continue to 
have them. A problem play does not make the 
world any worse; it strives, indeed, to make the 
world a little better. Neither J. M. Barrie nor 
G. M. Cohan is going to stop writing comedies be- 
cause Pinero and Eugene Walter wrote "Mid- 
Channel" and "The Easiest Way." When we 
plead for the encouragement by American audiences 
of earnest, outspoken, native sociological dramas, 
we are only pleading for the widening and deepen- 
ing of our dramatic literature, the enrichment and 
vitalizing of its appeal. A stage must be universal 
in its range, it must embrace the grave as well as 
the gay if it is to class as literature, if it is justly 
to reflect life, if it is to be of social service in the 
community. 

Once upon a time to a certain sectarian college 



276 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

came a student from the rural regions. "I want 
to study for the ministry," he said, "but I don't 
want to study any subjects which will shake my 
faith, no science nor anything like that. My faith 
is grounded on the Rock of the Church, and I pro- 
pose to keep it there." 

The wise Dean replied that if his faith was so 
insecure that it would not resist honest study, he 
had better go back to the farm. 

Are not those good souls who cannot tolerate 
serious social drama on the stage "because there is 
enough unhappiness in the world," much like this 
prospective parson? Their faith in the ultimate 
goodness and beauty of the world must be insecure 
indeed if they cannot face the depiction of its evils 
on the stage that they may understand those evils 
better, and, through a better understanding and a 
wider sympathy, gained by the noble service of Art, 
move toward the day when there is less "unhappi- 
ness" in Life. 



GEORGE ARLISS— A STUDY IN ACTING 

igi2 

When Mrs. Fiske first mounted "Becky Sharp" 
Tyrone Power played the Marquis of Steyne and 
Maurice Barrymore played — and how he played! 
— Rawdon Crawley. When she revived the drama 
a few years later poor Barrymore was dead, and an 
actor comparatively new to our stage, though his 
talents were already well recognized, was the Lord 
Steyne. His name was George Arliss, and his first 
entrance upon the scene was one of those memorable 
examples of the actor's art which, once witnessed, 
is never forgotten. 

Steyne makes his appearance in Act II, coming 
out on the broad stair-landing above the ball-room 
and looking down upon the animated scene for a few 
moments without speaking. No entrance is 
"worked up" for him, as the players would say. 
He comes quite unheralded, slipping quietly into 
the picture. In Mrs. Fiske's production the ball- 
room was done in a general color scheme of yellow. 

27? 



278 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

The eyes of the audience during the preceding por- 
tion of the act were fixed upon the figures moving 
animatedly about on the ball-room floor. "There 
was a sound of revelry by night," a gay atmosphere, 
nothing sinister nor tragic. But suddenly one or 
two persons in the audience felt impelled to glance 
up to the broad stair-landing above. There, sil- 
houetted sharply against the lemon-yellow wall, 
stood, to their surprise, a new figure in the drama, 
a smallish figure immaculate in black silk hose and 
breeches and coat, with a curiously crafty, malicious 
and domineering face framed between its dark 
whiskers and over a high white stock. The keen 
eyes were glancing down upon the bare shoulders of 
the women. A smile played upon the sensuous lips. 
But the figure neither moved nor spoke. 

Yet this silent figure had riveted the attention of 
those few persons in the audience. One by one 
others in the audience felt curiously impelled to look 
up, and their attention, too, was riveted. Finally 
the entire audience, forgetful of the persons on the 
ball-room floor, was looking with something akin to 
surprised awe at the black-clad, smiling, sinister 
figure on the landing. When all eyes were fixed 
upon him, the figure moved. He stepped with the 
grace of a panther down the stairs, and it was as if 



GEORGE ARLISS 279 

a dark shadow of evil, of tragedy, settled on the gay 
scene. He walked over to Becky and spoke in a 
soft, wheedling voice; and it was as if her tragedy 
had met her face to face. The real drama had be- 
gun. Then came the cannon of Waterloo. 

The actor who, unheralded and in silence, thus 
imposed a mood on an entire audience (aided, of 
course, by Mrs. Fiske's wonderful sense of effect in 
her stage management) was George Arliss. A bet- 
ter illustration could hardly be found of Mr. Arliss's 
power to bring a character to instant life, and weld 
it into the drama. His acting, widely appreciated 
and liberally rewarded, we are glad to say, is one 
of the finer things of the American stage, and a 
study of it rewards us with a better understanding 
of and a greater respect for the whole art of acting. 

How, the writer recently asked Mr. Arliss, did 
he rivet the attention of the audience in "Becky 
Sharp" before he had spoken a word, even before 
many in the audience had even guessed what char- 
acter had entered? His reply was significant. It 
is much the same reply, in effect, that Duse once 
made to a similar question. It connects the magic 
of great acting directly with the mystery of imagina- 
tion, and ranks the great actor beyond a question as 
a creative artist, 



280 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

"I can account for that effect," said Mr. Arliss, 
"only by the theory that even before I left my 
dressing room each night I felt the situation. I 
felt how like an ominous black shadow of evil the 
real Lord Steyne must have descended on the scene 
— incarnate power, the power of wealth, of posi- 
tion, of craftiness and will, all bent on cruel ends. 
When I came out on the landing that idea possessed 
my whole imagination. Technically, I think many 
actors quite underestimate the power of the eye, and 
perhaps my use of my eyes as I stood on the landing 
had something to do with the effect. But I cannot 
avoid the conviction that when the actor himself is 
caught up into the imaginative life of the character 
and the scene, then, and then alone, can he, by some 
mysterious process, communicate a fire to the imag- 
inations of his audience. 

"There are times when one feels abominably 
one's self on the stage, tremendously healthy, when 
one's thoughts will stray to golf or a tramp in the 
country. And then one feels that heavy atmos- 
phere of the play which envelops you behind the 
proscenium, or should envelop you if you have the 
actor's temperament, dispelled; and just as certain 
as death or taxes one feels, at the same moment, his 
audience slipping from him, and hears the restless 



GEORGE ARLISS 281 

cough. That is an excellent reason for having good 
actors and actresses in the company with you. 
They help to maintain the atmosphere of illusion 
not only for the audience but, quite as importantly, 
for the star or leading players. That is one reason 
why it is so satisfactory to play with Mrs. Fiske. 
She lives every moment the life of the play, and in 
her electric atmosphere your imagination, too, sus- 
tains you in the illusion." 

Imagination, then, is the life blood of fine acting, 
as of any of the creative arts. But imagination 
without training, without technical command of the 
tools of the trade, is of slight avail. It is because 
Mr. Arliss combines imagination with a fine and 
resourceful technique and a broad intelligence, that 
his art is a model and a standard on our contempor- 
ary stage. 

How he achieved his technique is a valuable 
lesson to the younger actors of the day — though, 
fortunately for us, Mr. Arliss himself is still in his 
prime. He was born in England in 1868, and first 
acted in 1887. His first year on the stage was 
spent in an obscure London stock company "over 
the water" on the Surrey side (which might be Jer- 
sey City or Hoboken) — a company which mounted 
a new play every week. His second season was 



282 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

spent with a provincial road company wherein he 
played twenty leading parts. Those first two sea- 
sons, he says, were the most valuable of his career. 

During the first year the novice, yet to enter his 
majority, played a new part every week, all of them 
small parts; and because they were small parts, and 
because the company was a cheap one without time 
for careful stage direction, he was left free to play 
his parts as he saw fit. One week he was a police- 
man, one week a clerk, another time a rustic. He 
could make these characters young or old, as he 
wished. The young actor, full of ambition, made 
it his task to study each little part as carefully as he 
could. If he was to play a London clerk, for ex- 
ample, he watched actual clerks till he found one 
who seemed, in dress and manner, either to be a type 
of his class or to represent something that would be 
effective on the stage. Then Mr. Arliss would go 
home and design a hat or a collar or a wig or a 
suit of clothes, or all combined, that he might look, 
as well as talk and act, like this type from life he 
had been watching. 

"Anything I saw on the streets which I thought 
effective dramatically I managed to get on to the 
stage before a fortnight," Mr. Arliss says. "And 
what was the result? Sometimes I fear it was, im- 



GEORGE ARLISS 283 

mediately, to upset the balance of the performance, 
but for me personally it was the finest kind of train- 
ing. Not only did I skill my eye to observation, 
but I acquired a whole stock of effects which have 
remained in the background of my memory, and to 
this day when I am called on to play this part or 
that, almost unconsciously these memories come to 
my aid, and I know what I can achieve and how I 
can achieve it. The young actor who begins on 
Broadway with a single part, plays it for two sea- 
sons, and then plays a second part for two seasons 
more, and so on till he is old, will never, save by 
a miracle, learn to be an actor. He will not learn 
the tools of his trade." 

The next year saw Mr. Arliss, still with a cheap 
company, touring the provinces. He was now 
playing leading roles, however, twenty of them, of 
all sorts, and experimenting with audiences inces- 
santly. A decade of acting in London followed. 
Then, in 1901, Mr. Arliss came to America, sup- 
porting Mrs. Patrick Campbell. New York first 
saw him as Cayley Drummle in "The Second Mrs. 
Tanqueray," and enjoyed the crisp, worldly humor, 
the polished urbanity, the lurking tenderness of that 
performance. It next enjoyed him as the Duke of 
St. Olpherts in "The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith," 



284 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

and felt a touch of his cynical power as well as his 
polish. Fortunately for us, he did not go back to 
England to act. David Belasco, who may be relied 
on to know acting when he sees it, kept him here to 
play the cruel and crafty old Japanese, Zakkuri, in 
"The Darling of the Gods," a part wherein his 
powers for sinister suggestion and for sheer physical 
illusion of "make up" had full scope. 

But, equally fortunately for us, Mr. Arliss did 
not remain with Mr. Belasco. We say fortunately, 
because Mr. Belasco, with all his marvelous skill 
as a stage director, is too often enamoured of the 
merely theatrical drama, and there is too seldom 
any underlying basis of intellectual or social pur- 
pose and truth-seeking in the plays he writes or 
stages. Mr. Arliss transferred his support to Mrs. 
Fiske, and with her, at last, he was in company 
worthy of his finest efforts, and likely to induce 
them. With her, he truly established himself as 
a leading actor of our stage, in the best sense of the 
word. 

With Mrs. Fiske he played such diverse roles as 
Lord Steyne in "Becky Sharp," Judge Brack in 
"Hedda Gabler," Ulric Brendel in "Rosmersholm," 
Raoul Berton in "Leah Kleschna," and the old 
Frenchman in Mrs. Fiske's own one-act play, "Eyes 



GEORGE ARLISS 285 

of the Heart." Lord Steyne was a crafty, power- 
ful, distinguished man of the world; Berton in 
"Leah Kleschna" was a degenerate young French 
blade. The two parts, wide as the poles, were as 
widely differentiated by the actor. One was by 
turns hypocritically suave, worldly, urbane, grim, 
powerful, not- to-be-denied ; and in its physical 
aspect an astonishing replica of Thackeray's own 
drawing for the character. The other was juvenile, 
devil-may-care, and physically, thanks in part to 
the actor's wonderful use of his legs, arms, and 
nervous, expressive hands and fingers, almost a 
study in degeneracy. Still again, his Ibsen char- 
acters were no less sharply cut, and carried with 
them the chill atmosphere of the Old Man of the 
North. 

It was after his seasons with Mrs. Fiske that Mr. 
Arliss first appeared as a star, not a star created be- 
cause his "personality" pleased the public, but be- 
cause he possessed the ripeness of technique, the 
power of suggestion, the insight and the under- 
standing, to play stellar parts. His first venture 
was made in the early fall of 1907, in the title role 
of "The Devil," a rather cheap and unimaginative 
play by an Hungarian, in which the leading actor 
wore a frock coat over his supposed tail, boots over 



286 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

his cloven hoofs, and symbolized temptation at the 
ear of a man and a maid, who, truth to tell, needed 
no external propulsion to drive them into sin. An- 
other manager put out another Devil at the same 
time, and the two productions at least served to 
show how much more subtle, suggestive, polished 
and imaginative was the art of Mr. Arliss than that 
of his rival. 

From the evil omniscience of the Devil to the 
childlike simplicity and delicate goodness of Septi- 
mus, in a dramatization of Mr. Locke's story, was 
the wide step Mr. Arliss next chose to take. "Sep- 
timus," the drama, fell far short of "Septimus," 
the novel, and failed. But we had, at least, the 
opportunity to see that Mr. Arliss's' "personality" 
was not the cause of his success in sinister roles, 
since here he no less successfully suggested whim- 
sical childlikeness and goodness of heart. With 
what minute and careful touches he built up the 
quaint picture of Septimus the dreamer and eccen- 
tric! His delicate fingers, nervously sinister as 
Steyne or Berton, were here used to suggest the in- 
ventor, and the man of gentle ways. When some 
one departed from the room, he said "Good-bye" 
after they had gone, as if his wits were but just 
come back from wool gathering, and in a flash 



GEORGE ARLISS 287 

touched the character to life. And here, in his 
quiet, perfectly modulated voice, was not the oily 
craftiness of Steyne, purring over Becky, but gentle 
wistfulness or humor. His imaginative grasp of 
the character seemed actually to color his tones. 

Finally we are now seeing Mr. Arliss in New 
York this winter (as Chicago saw him last) in a 
character different alike from Steyne or Septimus, 
from Devil or saint, as that brilliant and contradic- 
tory historic figure of mid- Victorian England, the 
Jew, Disraeli, set in a drama by Louis N. Parker. 
It is a brilliant portrait that Mr. Arliss has painted, 
one of the true acting achievements of the winter, 
one of those achievements in character delineation 
which remind us that large and stirring and vivid 
acting did not perish with Richard Mansfield, after 
all. 

Considerable nonsense has been printed in the 
Sunday papers about Mr. Arliss's methods of make 
up for this part. Considerable nonsense is always 
being printed in the Sunday papers about one thing 
or another. According to the papers, Mr. Arliss 
scurried all over Paris in quest of a wig which might 
exactly match one worn by "Dizzy" himself. "As 
a matter of fact," the actor says, "I did what any 
sensible person would do, — I looked at an authentic 



288 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

portrait of Disraeli, and then went to a wig maker 
with my instructions. I had his clothes copied in 
the same rather obvious and practical manner, after 
looking at the collection of Disraeli relics in the 
South Kensington Museum." From which we may 
infer that Mr. Arliss's art remains free of bun- 
combe. 

"I had always, from my youth, been interested 
in Disraeli, both as a man and a possible stage 
figure," he continued, "but when it was assured at 
last that I was to put him on the stage, I stopped 
reading about him altogether, and waited till the 
completed manuscript was in my hands before re- 
suming study. I did this that I might see the char- 
acter in relation to the actual drama, rather than in 
relation to history, and so have the squint on it my 
audiences were bound to have. Once the manu- 
script was before me, I began to study Dizzy's life 
and works for the character details that would fit 
with Mr. Parker's play. That seemed to me the 
only way in which I could be fair at once to history 
and to the drama. Doubtless my impersonation, 
no less than the play, lacks something of historical 
correctness, but Mr. Parker and I have both tried 
to interpret for the present the essential spirit of the 



GEORGE ARLISS 289 

man and his period, in a manner that shall still be 
interesting as acted drama." 

Sensible words, these. How nearly Mr. Arliss is 
like the real Dizzy we fancy the majority of his 
audiences do not greatly care, nor always realize. 
Dizzy was something of a fop, we all know, and 
Mr. Arliss catches this suggestion. But he was a 
brilliant man besides, with a Shavian gift of epi- 
gram, and Mr. Arliss tosses off those epigrams as 
brilliantly and spontaneously as could be desired. 
Disraeli, too, was Prime Minister of England, in 
the face of opposition, and that meant crafty power 
and iron will behind the suave, dandified ways and 
the bantering, sharp-edged epigrams. Not the least 
effective feature of Mr. Arliss's impersonation is his 
constant suggestion of this power and will, a sug- 
gestion made without our being conscious of the 
method. Merely, he dominates the scene when he 
is present; he holds the attention just as the striking 
personality of Disraeli would in life; he brings the 
spectator under the spell of his eyes and voice. 
Finally, Disraeli was, with it all, a good bit of a 
bluff — and knew he was ; and a good bit of a humor- 
ist, with a warm corner in his heart for his elderly 
wife; and a good bit of a dreamer, too, who saw an 



290 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

imperial England with an Oriental's eyes. It is 
easy to find the suggestion of all these contradictory 
traits clearly made in Mr. Arliss's portrait, and yet 
fused into unity, as in the man himself. 

The imagination which lies behind such a piece of 
acting, planning it consistently, guiding it, welding 
it into the drama without violence to history, is an 
imagination to respect. The technical skill to make 
the careful plan plain and potent for the audience, 
to color the voice, to suggest power, distinction, 
craftiness, humor, tenderness, in rapid succession, 
to speak epigrams naturally, not by rote, to inspire 
something of the dignity of a prime minister and 
the romance of the Jew, is a technical skill as re- 
markable as it is rare. Who of our younger actors 
has such skill? Who has had the training to de- 
velop such skill? For, while the actor's imagina- 
tion is born with him, his technique must be ac- 
quired. 

Indeed, the actors, young or old, on our stage to- 
day who can compare with George Arliss, either in 
imagination or technical proficiency, are few and far 
between. He represents for us acting in its best es- 
tate, an art at once broad and subtle, vivid as life, and 
truly creative. To miss seeing him is to miss one 
of the finest pleasures of our contemporary theater. 






WHAT IS A GOOD PLAY? 

19 12 

One of the favorite sports of a considerable por- 
tion of the population is scoffing at the dramatic 
critics. It is not, however, a defense of dramatic 
criticism we propose to write here. Criticism that 
is serious and sincere needs no defense, for it is 
inevitable, whether we like and agree with it or not; 
and the more serious and sincere our drama is, the 
more criticism we shall have. The serious drama is 
a record, presented for public consideration, of the 
dramatist's vision and philosophy of life — whether 
he is conscious of it or not. And no public presen- 
tation of so important a matter can, or should, pass 
without challenge and consideration. Such chal- 
lenge and consideration is any criticism worthy of 
the name. If it concerns itself merely with a few 
technical rules, or seeks merely to fill a column in an 
evening paper with jesting, or to inform the public 
whether such and such a play is going to run three 

weeks or three months, it is hardly criticism at all. 

291 



292 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

When we attack dramatic criticism, it might be well 
to reflect first whether it is criticism we are attack- 
ing. Such reflection would save us a lot of breath. 

The residue of theatrical reporting, the real criti- 
cism, is most often scoffed at because its verdicts dis- 
agree with our personal tastes or judgments (which, 
in untrained minds, are usually the same). It may 
not be amiss, then, to set forth by examples of re- 
cent seasons certain principles which guide the critic 
to his judgments, to show the reasons why he calls 
this play good and that play bad. Recently the 
writer of this paper received a letter from a some- 
what irate reader, which contained the following bit 
of argument — "I should like to know what you 
think of Ibsen and 'The Man from Home.' " To 
tell all we think of Ibsen would, unfortunately, re- 
quire more space than the editor will allow us. To 
tell what we think of "The Man from Home," how- 
ever, calls for less room. We think it a pleasant 
and popular piece of extremely parochial jingo. 
W r e should class it as an excellent bad play. But it 
is of the good plays we should prefer to speak at 
this time, taking up several that are fresh in memory, 
and showing, if possible, why the critics praised 
them, either in accordance with, or in defiance of, 
the popular verdict. 



WHAT IS A GOOD PLAY'? 293 

After twelve years of constant analytic attendance 
at the theatre, we are ourselves persuaded that un- 
derlying all other questions, technical or what not, 
is the question of the playwright's sincerity. Did 
he write his play because the theme or the characters 
interested him, did he write it to please himself, to 
express himself; or did he write it because he fancied 
such a theme or such a set of characters would strike 
the popular fancy? The machine-made dramas, 
written to the order of such and such a star, the 
vain efforts of one playwright to repeat another's 
success in certain lines, or to duplicate his own, may 
have all the supposedly requisite technical excel- 
lencies. But they are invariably at most but the 
success of an hour, and they are invariably poor 
plays from any higher consideration. A man may 
write his heart out, and still produce a poor drama, 
to be sure, for lack of the technical gift. But no 
man with only the technical gift and a desire to 
make money can ever write a good play, a play, 
that is, which will ring true and stand the test of 
revival. 

The first test a critic applies to a new work, then, 
is this test of sincerity. And no more striking 
examples of sincerity are to be found on the modern 
stage than the plays of John Galsworthy. It is nei- 



294 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

ther their theme nor their literary polish which pri- 
marily causes their high estimation by critics and the 
judicious amateurs. It is the still, white flame of 
passionate sincerity which illuminates them. The 
author isn't writing to please us, he is writing to tell 
us about certain men and women he has observed, 
to plead with us to understand these people; he is 
asking us to look with him upon this or that episode 
of real life (set by him upon the stage), and to 
comprehend a little clearer its significance. That is 
why his plays seem so worth while, so like a real 
experience rather than a mere entertainment. And 
that, primarily, is why the critics praise them so 
highly. 

Three of these plays have been professionally pro- 
duced in America, "The Silver Box" by Miss Ethel 
Barrymore, "Strife" by the New Theatre, and, most 
recently, "The Pigeon" at Mr. Ames' Little The- 
atre. The first failed largely because Miss Barry- 
more's public were not yet ready to receive her in 
anything but pretty piffle. The second shared in 
the general failure of the New Theatre project. 
The last was a success with Mr. Ames' public. But 
success or failure with a certain public cannot 
rightly affect the critic's judgments. These plays 
were acclaimed, then, first for their sincerity, their 



WHAT IS A GOOD PLAY? 295 

honest, truthful, sympathetic presentation of a hu- 
man situation, and secondarily for their literary skill 
and distinction, and technical expertness. These 
latter qualities, of course, appeal more consciously 
to the critic than to the playgoer; and to some play- 
goers they do not appeal at all. They are most 
widely valued in a community where the largest 
number of theatre-goers are aesthetically well edu- 
cated, as in Paris. But as it is a part of the critic's 
mission to help in the process of aesthetic education, 
he cannot ignore them if he would. 

William Archer, in his new book, "Play Making," 
says, "The French plays (of Brieux), in my judg- 
ment, suffer artistically from the obtrusive predom- 
inance of the theme — that is to say, the abstract ele- 
ment — over the human and concrete factors in the 
composition. Mr. Galsworthy's more delicate and 
unemphatic art eludes this danger, at any rate in 
"Strife." We do not remember until all is over that 
his characters represent classes, and his action is, one 
might almost say, a sociological symbol." 

This is a tribute at once to his literary and techni- 
cal skill, and to his sincerity. We do not feel 
"Strife" to be a tract on the labor question nor "The 
Pigeon" a sermon on the need of love and sympathy 
for our fallen fellow beings, because Mr. Gals- 



296 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

worthy is human enough himself to put real laborers 
and real fallen fellow beings upon the stage, and 
skilful enough to let them tell their own story, in- 
stead of putting labeled puppets on the stage and 
preaching about them. If Mr. Galsworthy's plays 
fail of a wide popularity, that is because their themes 
are sober and thoughtful, and they lack the sex ele- 
ment a conventional public has come to expect. 
But they have in a remarkable degree that attribute 
of sincerity which inspires respect; they seem real 
episodes in the lives of real people, not machines 
concocted to amuse or thrill; and they are written 
with technical expertness and distinction of dialogue. 
That is why the critic acclaims them. 

Taking now two plays of widely different sort, 
the Scotch comedy, "Bunty Pulls the Strings," and 
that one-act Irish masterpiece, "Riders to the Sea," 
we find the first has been enormously popular both 
in New York and Chicago, while Synge's drama, 
when presented by the Irish Players here, drew only 
half a handful of people. Yet the critic calls them 
both good plays, and probably considers the less 
popular the finer drama. Why? 

Anybody can tell why he likes ' 'Bunty Pulls the 
Strings." It is funny. It is funny because it so 
neatly and wittily and lovingly hits off the foibles 



WHAT IS A GOOD PLAY? 297 

of the Scotch character and manners. The story 
of the play alone would not make it a popular suc- 
cess, nor a critical. Indeed, it is rather a simple, 
obvious and old-fashioned story. But the char- 
acters are all odd, humorous and interesting. We 
delight to watch Bunty manage the whole commun- 
munity. We delight in the quaint accent and 
idiom, in the quaint costumes, in the flavor and at- 
mosphere of the story. Here is a case where mere 
academic structure counts for far less than the em- 
broidery. Yet any critic who is not a hidebound 
formalist is bound to call it a good play, because 
it does rouse our interest and our mirth, it creates 
its mood and lets us see into the life of a Scotch 
village; it does, in short, what it sets out to do. It 
is truthful and it is funny. 

There is nothing funny about "Riders to the 
Sea." That solemn, heart-searching little master- 
piece is almost Greek in its tragic simplicity. But 
it, too, is honest, and it does what it sets out to do. 
It sets out to create in the auditor a sense of the 
terrible spectre of Death which broods over the 
fishermen's huts on the bleak west coast of Ireland, 
and yet to create it in such language — the poetic 
language of a sensitive peasant people — that there 
is a solemn beauty in the performance, and the play 



298 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

is not brutal but almost spiritual, tragic yet lovely. 
It has always been the mission of true poetry so to 
touch with transforming wand the themes of Fate 
and Death. No man with a soul above the brute 
can sit before the Irish Players' performance of 
"Riders to the Sea" without feeling at once its tragic 
solemnity and its searching poetry. Its language, 
always the language these Celtic peasants might 
naturally use, falls like hushed music on the ear, 
though it brings the flutter of the wings of Death. 
That is why the critic calls this not only a good 
play, but a great play; and though a public which 
likes always to laugh avoids it in America, the critic 
feels that it will still be performed when 'The Man 
From Home" has retired to Kokomo forever. 

We may also contrast two other plays, both of 
which the critics called good, but only one of which 
enjoyed much patronage in this country, "The Con- 
cert," produced by Mr. Belasco, and "The Thunder- 
bolt," by Pinero, produced both by the New The- 
atre, and, more recently, by the Chicago Theatre 
Society last winter. The critic calls "The Concert" 
a good play (quite aside from the merits of Mr. 
Belasco's particular production) because with 
shrewd worldly wisdom and humor the author holds 
up and dissects types of character, particularly the 



WHAT IS A GOOD PLAY? 299 

character of a childish, egotistical, much flattered 
piano virtuoso (type of the "artistic tempera- 
ment"), and the character of the steady, comfort- 
able, forgiving wife. The absurdities of such 
women as lose their heads over musicians are also 
satirized. This play is good because it has these 
elements of truth, fused into a well made and inter- 
esting story. This play is successful, of course, be- 
cause its truth is patent and its interest and fun 
unflagging. 

Now, 'The Thunderbolt" is a satire on types of 
character, also, on middle-class British smugness, 
hypocrisy and money greed (but British more in 
externals than otherwise, since money greed and 
smugness have been known to exist elsewhere!). 
Because its characters are human and true, its story 
well knit and sustained, its sincerity and interest 
unescapable, the critic is just as bound to call this 
a good play as "The Concert." Yet the public 
went to "The Concert" but not to "The Thunder- 
bolt." Why*? Not because they considered "The 
Thunderbolt" a bad play, but because its satire is 
too mordant and grim, its story too harsh, its picture 
too pitifully revealing of the sordid side of our frail 
humanity — that, and also a little, one is sure, be- 
cause it was produced at the New Theatre and by 



300 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

the Chicago Players, and so shared in the public 
indifference toward those institutions. Such audi- 
ences as did see it felt its power and most of them 
followed its story with complete absorption. That 
a thoughtless theatre-goer doesn't like "The Thun- 
derbolt," because it oppresses him, is no reason at all 
why he should leap with both feet upon the critic 
who praises it. The critic does not ask whether it 
is pleasant or unpleasant, but whether it is true, 
whether its characters are real people, its story well 
knit and logical, its author's deductions, his "crit- 
icism of life," sound and just. Finding them to be 
so in "The Thunderbolt," he is in duty bound to 
proclaim it a good play. Only if he failed to do 
so should he be leaped upon. The time may yet 
come when enough of the public will find enter- 
tainment in truth, whether grave or gay, rather than 
in mere jesting or in truth only when it is pleasant, 
to make such works as "The Thunderbolt" success- 
ful in proportion to their real merits. 

The later plays of Augustus Thomas have, fortu- 
nately, pleased both critics and public. They have 
pleased the critics because, without sacrificing that 
narrative interest in a well sustained story which 
was always the basis of Mr. Thomas's appeal, they 
have revealed, besides, a purpose to make that story 



WHAT IS A GOOD PLAY? 301 

significant of some larger idea. Both in "The 
Witching Hour" and "As a Man Thinks," Mr. 
Thomas has shown real people on the stage, talk- 
ing naturally yet with a certain distinction, and in- 
volved in an interesting set of situations. Yet 
these situations have been cleverly chosen to illus- 
trate some phase of the author's philosophy of life 
— chiefly, one guesses, a belief that our inner 
thoughts have a tremendous dynamic power in shap- 
ing our characters, our outward acts, even the for- 
tunes of those about us. Mr. Thomas really be- 
lieves this. His later plays have a ring of sincerity. 
It is a belief that has great powers for good. There- 
fore his plays gain an added importance. And, 
since this message they bear is one of cheer, and 
since they do not bear it in the form of a sermon 
but a good story, they are popular with all theatre- 
goers, as well as with the critics. 

"The Typhoon," now being played by Walker 
Whiteside, is an excellent example of a play which 
the critic is obliged at once to praise and to con- 
demn, to praise for its underlying theme and its gen- 
eral truth, to condemn for its technical shortcom- 
ings. It is a popular play, because its theme is 
of such novelty and interest that the shortcomings 
are not sufficiently felt by the public to destroy the 



302 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

appeal. The theme of "The Typhoon" is the con- 
trasted characters and ideals of the Japanese and 
the Europeans. A Japanese diplomat is shown at 
Berlin, engaged on a secret and important work for 
his government. He becomes entangled with a 
European courtesan, and finally he loses that self- 
control which is an ideal of his race, and murders 
her. He is only able to finish his work because one 
of his countrymen, regarding the national mission 
as of more importance than his own life, takes the 
blame for the crime. Broadly, the play shows the 
intense racial self-possession of the Japanese, their 
overpowering national consciousness, their total 
antithesis to Occidental individualism. It is true 
to the type depicted, and the story is told with much 
embellishment of exotic atmosphere. It also has 
its moments of great theatrical excitement. Hence 
its popular appeal. So far, it is a good play. But 
it has many structural weaknesses. In the first 
place, we are never told what that great "work" 
the Japanese diplomat is doing consists of. We do 
not see why it should be of such profound impor- 
tance to Japan. In the second place, many of the 
scenes are crudely handled, so that the illusion of 
reality is lost. Sometimes the Japanese babble in 
their native tongue (or what is supposed to be their 



WHAT IS A GOOD PLAY? 303 

native tongue) and sometimes they talk English. 
The closing of the play is blind. Moreover, one 
wonders what would become of the point that a 
Japanese is ruined by the Occidental love passion 
if the European woman had been a good woman, 
instead of a scarlet lady. Such points as these are 
flaws in workmanship and logic, and the critic is 
bound to condemn them, even in the most popular 
of plays. They are not to be found in the master- 
pieces of the drama, where perfect workmanship 
unites with depth or charm of idea and truth of 
character — and it is by the masterpieces that the 
critic judges. 

A frequent criticism of critics is that they are 
over given to praising gloom and depreciating mirth. 
Critical wrath against the ' 'happy ending," how- 
ever, is not due to the fact that the critics love 
laughter less but that they love logic more. No- 
body in his senses objects to a happy ending to a 
comedy. It is when the happy ending is arbitrar- 
ily tacked on a play which was foreordained to a 
tragic conclusion that the critic rages. Any play 
which sets out to depict a set of circumstances which, 
to be true to life and significant as a commentary 
on society, has to end unhappily, and then deliber- 
ately, to please the ladies and matinee maids, throws 



304 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

everybody into somebody else's arms at the finish, 
is a bad play, an insincere and false play, and no 
amount of talk and excuses can make it anything 
else. Imagine Shakespeare calling in the family 
doctor to save Hamlet and resuscitate Ophelia! 
Imagine Ibsen bringing Nora back from the front 
door in "The Doll's House," and casting her into 
Helmer's arms! 

Naturally, an audience wants to see characters 
in whom it has become interested, happy. But if, 
to make them happy, truth to human nature has to 
be sacrificed, then they cannot be happy and the 
play remain a good one. 

But it is not alone that you critics condemn the 
happy ending, the reader may object. You seem 
to prefer the solemn, serious, gloomy dramas, as a 
class, to those which are light and merry. There's 
a reason for this seeming preference, dear reader. 
The critic does not really prefer such dramas as a 
class, but such dramas are, as a class, more often 
good than the other kind ; they are more often truth- 
ful, sincere and logical. That is partly because the 
playwrights who write not to express themselves 
but to catch the public pennies usually write come- 
dies or machine-made romances, while the more 
serious plays are written by the more serious play- 



WHAT IS A GOOD PLAY? 305 

wrights. It is partly because it is almost always 
easier to make bad people effective in fiction than 
good — a well known fact. But it is chiefly because 
most writers, in common with the rest of us, are 
more deeply stirred by the wrongs and sufferings of 
the world than by its joys. We don't, as a rule, 
rise up and shout because our neighbor is getting 
along happily with his wife. If he is beating her, 
however, we are very likely to act. It is so with 
the earnest dramatist. Joy, to be sure, with some 
is a passion, and comedy a gift. J. M. Barrie is 
one of them. Nothing could be truer than Barrie's 
fantasy, and "The Admirable Crichton" is one of 
the finest and most significant plays yet written in 
English in the twentieth century. Nevertheless, 
the fact remains that those dramatists who write 
because they really have something to say, more 
often than not feel impelled to talk about the 
wrongs of the world rather than its farces. 

Now the serious critic, too, hopes that he has some- 
thing to say. He wants to have something to say, 
at any rate. When he sees such a play as "Officer 
666" or "Seven Days," what can he say, save that 
it is an hilarious farce — go, and laugh, and be 
happy, and God bless you? But when he sees 
Galsworthy's "The Pigeon," or Thomas's "As a 



306 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

Man Thinks,'' or Gorky's "Night Refuge," or 
Pinero's "Mid-Channel," he is confronted with a 
serious man's opinions on life and conduct, and his 
own opinions rush into accord or conflict, and what 
he has to say is limited only by the space he has 
to say it in. He personally likes these plays be- 
cause they give him intellectual stimulus and emo- 
tional glow. And he believes they are far better 
plays than the other kind, because they are bound 
to give any intelligent spectator the same reaction. 
If he can get these reactions from a comedy (as 
from "The School for Scandal" or Shaw's "Arms 
and the Man" or Barrie's "Admirable Crichton"), 
the critic is as glad as you are. But he cannot often 
get them from the comedies of commerce, and that 
is chiefly why he seems to prefer the others. 

Mary Shaw once played Ibsen's "Ghosts" in 
Cripple Creek, and after the performance she heard 
a rough miner say to his companion, "Say, Bill, that 
play made a feller use his cocoanut!" 

The play that makes a critic use his cocoanut, 
he believes, is a better play than one which doesn't. 



THE MAN OF LETTERS AND THE 
NEW ART OF THE THEATER 

1913 

William Shakespeare, when he wrote his plays, 
did not have to worry about scenery, and because 
with the stroke of a pen he could create a forest 
of Arden or shift from Juliefs garden to the Friar's 
cell, he has been the plague of scene-painters and 
producers ever since scenery was invented. It is 
only in our generation that the art of stage-scenery 
has begun to be able to meet the exacting demands 
of Shakespearean drama not only mechanically, but 
poetically. Beginning with the visions of Gordon 
Craig and the practical productions by the German 
stage managers, like Max Reinhardt, a development 
has been going on in the theater which amounts 
almost to a revolution, and of which examples have 
at last reached America not alone in the imported 
pantomime, "Sumurun," rather a bizarre example, 
but in the productions being shown this winter by 
Margaret Anglin, to a lesser extent in those made 

307 



308 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

by Mr. Faversham, in Mr. Ames' Little Theater, 
in the Boston Opera-House, and elsewhere. 

In a Lowell Institute lecture last winter, Profes- 
sor George P. Baker predicted that in ten years the 
old-fashioned, "realistic" scenery (which, after all, 
seldom is realistic) would be quite obsolete save 
only in realistic plays with interior settings. If 
that is the case, the so-called "new scenery" is one 
of the most important developments in the whole 
history of the drama, and demands our attention. 
The present writer believes with Mr. Baker that it 
is the case; and he believes furthermore that we 
are on the eve of a renaissance of theatrical art, — 
the art of the whole theater, that is to say, — not 
merely of the writing of plays, but of their pro- 
duction. 

In a word, the new scenery is pictorial. The 
reader will perhaps exclaim at once that so was the 
old scenery. But in ninety-nine out of a hundred 
cases that is just what it wasn't, and isn't. It was 
a more or less crude attempt at a reproduction of 
place, — which, to be sure, is the first duty of scenery, 
— but it was, and is, generally a mechanical repro- 
duction, without pictorial quality and the higher 
forms of illusion. At how many stage-settings 
would you care to look for five minutes, with no 



THE MAN OF LETTERS 309 

play going on, regarding them purely as picture? 
How many have you ever beheld which, quite on 
their own merits, gave you the same mood of illusion 
as the drama itself? How many productions of 
Shakespeare have you ever witnessed in which the 
scenery was not a caricature on the verse, and the 
"waits" while the caricatures were being shifted 
so long that half the text had to be omitted? How 
many perspectives of distance have you ever seen 
on the stage which did not end palpably twenty 
feet to the rear in a painted back-drop? In short, 
how many stage-settings have you seen which were 
independent art? 

The new scenery can be independent art, that is, 
a pictorial and plastic expression worthy of com- 
panioning the highest flights of dramatic literature; 
and because this is so, the stage productions of the 
future more than ever in the past will contain ele- 
ments of illusion beyond the range of mere liter- 
ature, and the author's talent will more than ever 
be an incomplete equipment for the true man of the 
theater. 

In the earlier periods of literary creation the 
drama always occupied a high and often a supreme 
place both in literary dignity and popular regard. 
We have merely to glance at the Greece of Sopho- 



310 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

cles, the England of Shakespeare, the France of Mo- 
liere and Racine, to realize this. So strongly did 
the traditional literary importance of drama per- 
sist that the eighteenth century found Addison writ- 
ing "Cato" and Garrick besieged with manuscript 
plays from writers great and small, fitted and un- 
fitted for the calling. It was the sudden expansion 
of the novel form in the nineteenth century which 
more than anything else put the drama back in our 
day into a place of secondary importance in liter- 
ary, if not in popular, regard — a place that for the 
most part, we are forced to admit from the examples 
produced, was its proper one. 

In the age of Shakespeare, of Dryden, even of 
Fielding, probably Scott, Dickens, Thackeray, and 
a host of lesser novelists would have striven to write 
for the stage ; nor is there much reason to doubt that 
many of them could have learned to write for the 
stage successfully. But the novel having opened 
up a new channel of expression, in many ways an 
easier channel of expression, and certainly a fuller 
channel for the conveyance of all kinds of philo- 
sophic ideas, "criticism of life," and so on, won 
their allegiance instead. Moreover, the novel was 
suddenly realistic — suddenly, as the gods reckon 
time. When we reflect that Goldsmith's "She 



THE MAN OF LETTERS 311 

Stoops to Conquer" was considered realistic; when 
we read the strange melodramas of Kotzebue, which 
held the boards in the day of Scott; when we scan 
the playbills of any theater during the early years 
of Thackeray and Dickens, we can readily see why 
writers of talent turned away from the drama to 
the new, vastly fresher, and seemingly unlimited 
form of expression — the novel. Thereafter the 
drama steadily sank from its ancient post of liter- 
ary honor, particularly in England, till it had to 
offer, against the novels of George Eliot and Thack- 
eray, the farces of Morton or at best the "tea-cup 
comedies" of Tom Robertson, and in America Au- 
gustin Daly's "Under the Gas Lamps" against "The 
Rise of Silas Lapham." Small wonder the drama 
was scorned by men of letters. 

The contemporary drama was reborn in the North 
of a literarily new nation, and its father was Hen- 
rik Ibsen. It is not true, of course, that Ibsen 
worked alone, that no other stage writers in other 
lands preceded him or were contemporaneous with 
him in the movement to put the stage on a new foot- 
ing. Dumas fils and Augier certainly did their share, 
and stirrings of the new spirit were abroad in Ger- 
many. Realistic fiction was not without its influ- 
ence, also. Nevertheless, Ibsen was the greatest 



312 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

single factor, in part from the self-imposed isolation 
in which he labored. In this connection it is not 
necessary to hold a brief either for or against his 
own plays. Probably the truth about their merit 
lies between the extremes of Shavian admiration 
and Winterish detraction. Much of their atmos- 
phere, certainly, is local rather than universal, and 
as they recede their interest appears to grow less. 
But of their technical importance there can be no 
question. You have only to see a revival of a suc- 
cessful play of one generation ago — "Liberty Hall," 
for example, produced at the Empire Theater, New 
York, in 1892, and revived in March, 1913, — to 
realize what a tremendous revolution was wrought 
by the simple overthrow of certain conventions of 
play-writing, such as the aside and the soliloquy, 
and the development of a technique which could re- 
move the fourth wall of the room and show us 
reality. As soon as the dramatists of the Western 
World found that they could put real life, not stage 
life, before their audiences, and began to do so, 
what was bound to happen did happen — the men 
who knew most accurately and felt most deeply 
about real life were acclaimed the best dramatists. 
One did not need to be a Sardou to be successful. 
To be successful in the higher courts of taste, indeed, 



THE MAN OF LETTERS 313 

one needed not to be a Sardou. In short, reality 
succeeded trickery. The drama once more could 
offer to men of letters a worthy reward, because it 
could offer them at last a technique by which they 
could express their criticisms, their philosophies, 
their beliefs about life, no less effectively — though 
not so easily, because vastly more selective conden- 
sation is required — than by the novel. 

That is where the drama stands to-day so far as 
it is a matter of spoken text, and writers of the first 
rank are returning to it, as they always will return 
when conditions are favorable, not only because of 
its rich financial rewards, but because of its glamour, 
its excitement, its superb directness and vividness. 
J. M. Barrie has forsaken the novel altogether. 
G. B. Shaw is certainly as widely read and as influ- 
ential a man of letters as now writes in English. 
Galsworthy has had six plays produced in the last 
seven years. John Masefield, one of the leading 
English poets of the time, is a dramatic author. 
Sudermann and Hauptmann in Germany are essen- 
tially dramatic authors. The new Celtic revival 
is a dramatic revival, and Synge is its genius. The 
real literary life of a city like Manchester, England, 
centers about Miss Horniman's playhouse. Within 
the last ten years, in more than one of our American 



3 H PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

universities, the undergraduate interest in literature 
has shifted largely from the essay and fiction to the 
drama. This is notably true of Harvard. There 
is not to-day, and there never has been, a spon- 
taneous movement among the men and women who 
make up the audiences for any form of art to com- 
pare in extent or seriousness of interest with the 
Drama League of America, which now counts over 
fifty thousand members devoted to a study of the 
playhouse. By every token, the drama has entered 
upon a new era of respectability, and is once more 
held in high regard by men of letters, and deserves 
that regard. Mr. Galsworthy's "Strife" is no less 
important as literature than his "Patrician"; Eu- 
gene Walter's "The Easiest Way" is no less genuine 
a document than the stories of Mrs. Deland. 

We might, then, suppose from a casual glance 
that the theater has returned to its ancient condition 
in its relation to men of letters, that the play which 
would "bear the test of print" and justify itself as 
literature to the reader as well as to the spectator 
was once more the final test. We might suppose, 
in short, that the man of letters and the man of the 
theater are once more interchangeable. Let us see 
if that is the case. 

The poet who wrote for the theater of Athens 



THE MAN OF LETTERS 315 

wrote for a static stage, for actors who wore con- 
ventional masks, for a perfectly definite and fixed 
condition of presentation. The poet who wrote for 
the Elizabethan theater likewise wrote for a static, 
or very nearly static, stage, and once more the effects 
achieved were only such as lay in the power of his 
words or situations to convey. Even after the ap- 
plication of scenery to the stage and the withdrawal 
of the actors behind a proscenium-arch, so that the 
stage was no longer static, but potentially pictorial 
and plastic, the author still prevailed over the "pro- 
duction," and continued to prevail, of course with 
the actor's aid, until recent years. But the perfec- 
tion of electric illumination, the invention of the 
revolving-stage, the introduction of "relief" scenery, 
the application by a hundred and one technical 
methods of impressionism to the art of scenery and 
production, have suddenly put so powerful a weapon 
into the hand of the producer of the play that he 
has become frequently as important as the author, 
and not infrequently much more important. His 
imagination, his creative powers, if they chance to 
be greater than the author's, will produce an effect 
more potent over the audience than the text of the 
drama. Hence it is that we find such a man as 
Gordon Craig, who is essentially an artist in moods 



316 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

and scenery, not a man of letters, talking about a 
new art of the theatre — of the theatre, mind you, 
not of drama — and by his influence and the influ- 
ence of imitators in Germany, such as Max Rein- 
hardt, working at a revolution in the playhouse, a 
revolution extending even to the physical construc- 
tion of the building. These revolutionists are not 
dramatists, they are not men of letters; they are pro- 
ducers, stage-managers, in short, strictly men of the 
theatre. However, if we have yet scarcely begun 
to realize it in America, they are shaping the play- 
house and the drama of the future, and conditioning 
the dramatist. No sooner, then, do we seem to have 
spanned once more the gap between the man of let- 
ters and the stage, between literature and acted 
drama, than we find a Gordon Craig busily hacking 
down our bridge ! 

The new art of the theatre is based primarily on 
the electric switchboard. It recognizes that great 
stretches of painted canvas in a bright glare can 
never be illusive in any high sense, that they are 
bound to be the colored blocks of overgrown chil- 
dren; and so, first of all, it gets its colors not from 
the canvas, but from the lamps, and makes its per- 
spectives with shadows rather than with drawn lines. 
Secondly, it is usually an art of elimination down to 



THE MAN OF LETTERS 317 

the salient features of a given scene which shall most 
effectively comport with the mood of the play, and 
which can be combined into a true picture. It is 
impressionistic. It is to the old art what modern 
landscape-painting is to the mid- Victorian chromo. 
When it does not eliminate, when it employs the old 
methods of building "realistic" houses all over the 
stage, for instance, it does so in patches of color or 
with a pictorial rhythm of design that converts the 
ancient chaos into a new charm. Such is often Mr. 
Urban' s method at the Boston Opera-House. 

Take, for an example of simplification, Living- 
ston Piatt's settings for Miss Anglin's Shakespearean 
repertoire. They are painted almost entirely in a 
stipple of primary colors, which would tell virtually 
as gray in white light. Color is secured by the illu- 
mination, which is from above, not up from the foot- 
lights. Each Shakespearean play has a special per- 
manent fore-stage set up, with entrances on each 
side, which is designed to harmonize with the drama. 
On this fore-stage are acted all the intermediate 
scenes, while the main scenes are being shifted be- 
hind. These main scenes are simple. The palace, 
for example, in "Twelfth Night," shows only three 
graceful arched windows and through them the 
deep blue sky, while there are only two pieces of fur- 



318 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

niture in the room. Yet the picture amply satisfies 
the imagination, and fills the eye with pleasure, be- 
cause Mr. Piatt is an artist. Moreover, every 
change can be made without a moment's wait, and 
the entire text of the drama played as quickly as 
on a bare stage. Here at last the scene-setting can 
match the magic and the speed of Shakespeare's 
verse. 

In "Sumurun," staged by Max Reinhardt, we 
saw how the new art can get striking effects by dar- 
ing to group the players in high relief against a jet- 
black velvet curtain, — mimes against primeval dark- 
ness ! — and letting the very rhythm of their shifting 
poses conspire to the emotional effect. Again in 
"Sumurun" we saw how "relief scenery," which is 
simply a curtain painted in the flat, without any at- 
tempt at the third dimension, can, if it is designed by 
a real artist, be more potent than a whole littered 
stage of "solid" houses in perspective. Gordon 
Craig staged "Hamlet" in Moscow amid a maze of 
gigantic towering screens — nothing else — shifted in 
various designs, and the effect, while undoubtedly 
too bizarre for present American taste, was said to 
be wonderful. Less of a break from tradition was 
the Russian scenery for "Boris," shown at the Metro- 
politan Opera House last Winter, where a lofty wall 



THE MAN OF LETTERS 319 

of white went up, up, out of sight, and against it 
huddled a group of players in reds and browns, 
imaginatively dwarfed till the white walls were in- 
deed those of a mighty building. Even Belasco, 
arch-realist though he is, has felt the new possibili- 
ties, and in "A Good Little Devil," by a complete 
dimming of his lights in the first act, was able to 
open the wall of the boy's chamber to show the star- 
gemmed night sky, and then the angels floating in 
and standing about the bed in a faint golden radi- 
ance, like a moonlit fresco by Fra Angelico. That 
picture, indeed, was worth all the text of the play. 
It had far more of illusive art about it. It, and not 
the spoken dialogue, was stage "literature." And it 
was made possible, of course, by the modern electric 
switchboard. Electricity marks a new element in 
theatric art which was totally unknown in the past. 
The new art is based not on the fact that electricity 
has increased the reality of stage-settings, but on the 
fact that it has vastly increased the possibilities of 
suggestion: it veils reality in the nimbus of mystery. 
It has brought to the aid of illusion the army of 
shadows. 

Now, the effect on an audience of such stage-set- 
tings as these is something apart from the text of 
the drama, in the sense that it is not supplied by the 



320 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

dramatist, but by the producer; not by the words, 
the literary feature of the play, but by the arts of 
the painter and the electrician. Naturally, a good 
producer strives always to produce an effect which 
is in keeping with the text and spirit of the play. 
Indeed, the fact that Max Reinhardt has no fixed 
method of production is only a testimony to his ex- 
cellence as a stage-manager. He tries, if not al- 
ways with success, to catch the essential mood, the 
atmosphere, the emotional motif, call it what you 
will, of the drama, in his impressionistic settings. 
Even Gordon Craig, who staged "Hamlet" with 
towering screens, would not dream of so staging 
"The Easiest Way," which is not metaphysical, 
poetic, remote. It is worth noting, however, that 
Mr. Craig has recently published a design for Ibsen's 
"Rosmersholm" which is almost pure suggestion — 
suggestive, some might say, of a rat-trap. The fact 
remains that now, as never before in the history of 
the playhouse, the producer is a man of potentially 
as much importance as the dramatist, and the effects 
he achieves with canvas and switchboard can be as 
potent a part of our pleasure, even of our emotional 
enkindling, as the spoken words of the play. We 
feel that the "production," in short, is a part of the 
genuine art of the drama. We have long talked of 



THE MAN OF LETTERS 321 

the drama as combining all the arts, literature, paint- 
ing, sculpture, music; but beside the new scenery and 
the new grouping of players in relief, the old scenery 
and the old grouping had rather less of suggestive 
art about them than the Victorian chromo. What 
we have long said was true is only now becoming 
so. And as it more and more becomes so, the drama- 
tist who is merely a man of letters becomes less and 
less effectual in the theatre. 

He becomes less and less effectual because more 
and more of the hnal effect of his work will not be 
his own planning, but somebody else's, and because 
that unity of impression which must be the great 
test of a genuine work of art will more and more 
depend on the chance unity of temperament between 
author and producer. The more potent the pictorial 
side of drama becomes, the more important it be- 
comes that the author shall possess a pictorial mind, 
that the emotional and philosophic content of his 
work shall be capable of fusion with the most sug- 
gestive of settings. This implies more than a mere 
understanding of what is mechanically possible in 
the theatre. Successful writers for the stage have 
always possessed that understanding, which is a part 
of the general understanding of dramatic construc- 
tion. Men of letters who have not taken the trouble 



322 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

to achieve this general understanding have always 
failed in the theatre, as Browning failed. But in 
the new theatre not only an understanding of what 
is mechanically possible, but the ability to conceive 
and suggest the scenic designs, if not actually to put 
them on paper, will be required of those dramatists 
who are to be most eminent beyond the narrow 
bounds of contemporary realism. Contemporary 
realism, which has had its way with our literature of 
late, and probably to our good, will nevertheless not 
long endure as the only or the highest form of art. 
Already the theatre is swinging from it. But when 
fancy is turned loose in the theatre of the future — 
of the immediate future — when poetry riots, and ro- 
mance, no longer are the writer's line and the actor's 
voice the only elements of suggestion which count 
supremely in the effect, and no longer can the judg- 
ment of the printed page be invoked as the final judg- 
ment. So fused with the text will be the scenery, 
the pictorial element, so much a vital, integral part 
of the play will be the painting and the lighting, 
even the rhythm of the groupings, perhaps, that the 
printed text will not be the play at all. The pro- 
ducer will be half-author. The man of letters will 
be helpless without the man of the theatre. 

That of course, is why these men of the new the- 



THE MAN OF LETTERS 323 

atre are so impatient or even scornful of academic 
judgments, the traditional tests of literature. They 
know that they, too, are artists, and they rightly de- 
mand tests of their art which are proper to it, not 
tests devised for a wholly different form. And that 
is why the man of letters in the new theatre will be 
an incomplete, if not sometimes a futile, worker, un- 
less he, too, abandons the ancient tradition of the 
printed text as a final test of dramatic literature, and 
makes the test of theatrical performance, which de- 
mands a new judgment in the fusion of intellectual, 
emotional, plastic, and pictorial suggestion. We 
are to judge a play now by its capacities under ade- 
quate production, and as adequate production im- 
plies elements of art quite foreign to printed litera- 
ture, dramatic literature now steps beyond the an- 
cient test, and perhaps should drop the term litera- 
ture altogether, as making for confusion. 

And what shall be the relation of the man of let- 
ters to the new theatre^ It is quite inconceivable 
that we shall ever follow Gordon Craig to the limits 
of his theory that the drama should give up all at- 
tempts at reality, even throwing over human actors, 
and abandon itself to a puppet dance amid expressive 
scenery. That way madness lies. The modern 
drama of contemporary life has come to stay, though 



324 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

in a few years we shall demand something less than 
one third of the furniture which now clutters our 
stage rooms. The vocal side of dramatic art, carry- 
ing to audiences by the common medium of human 
intercourse the intellectual ideas of the dramatist, 
the sense of reality, the revelation of character, will 
of course always abide, whether in contemporary 
realism or the highest flights of poetic fancy. The 
new art of the theatre will be an evolution — not, 
after all, a revolution. It will add to the firm basis 
of literary solidity the fresh element of pictorial 
appeal, fusing the two into one structure, not, as of 
old, employing pictorial appeal merely as a conven- 
tional sign-post of place. That is all our present- 
day "realistic" scenery does. It is a sign-board of 
place. It has no emotional quality of its own; it 
cannot be called a branch of art. It is not really 
essential to the mood and effect of the drama. But 
in the new theatre the "production," the elements of 
scenery, lighting, grouping, the colors of the back- 
drops and costumes, the very design of the settings, 
are conscious art works in themselves; and when 
once the dramatist can rely upon them, he has 
achieved a whole new range of materials to work 
with besides words and the intellectual ideas words 
express. That is the point. The man of letters 



THE MAN OF LETTERS 325 

works with words, but the new dramatist with scene 
cloths and switchboards and living statues and even 
great patches of pure color. If the man of letters, 
then, is to express himself fully, reach a high devel- 
opment, in the new theatre, he must add to his tra- 
ditional literary equipment the ability to use these 
new materials to his purpose, making them combine 
and fuse into a great unity of impression. 

In the new theater, then, the dramatist must be 
painter and sculptor of words, ideas, emotions, no 
less than writer. The old interchangeableness be- 
tween dramatist and man of letters is gone. The 
great dramatists must still be born men of letters, 
but they must be something else besides : they must 
be artists of the theatre, aware that the theatre is 
not the printed page, rather proud, perhaps, that it is 
not, and impatient of any judgment which is not 
formed from a seat in the auditorium. 



WHAT IS ENTERTAINMENT? 
19 1 4 

How often we have heard somebody say, ''Well, 
after all, I go to the theatre to be entertained !" It 
is but another statement of Barrett Wendell's sar- 
castic definition of the duty of the American theatre 
— "To send the suburbs home happy." But how 
many of those who make, or those who listen to, this 
remark, have ever stopped to think just what enter- 
tainment means? 

Not only are we prone to forget that entertainment 
is a thing entirely relative to the age and neighbor- 
hood, but that it is still further relative to the indi- 
vidual, and when we say that we go to the theatre 
to be entertained we have no right to mean anything 
more than that. But we always do mean more than 
that. We always mean that we want a play which 
will amuse us or pleasantly affect our emotions, with- 
out tiring the attention, without bringing up issues 
which will have to be carried away for digestion out- 
side of the theatre, without, in short, in any way dis- 

326 



WHAT IS ENTERTAINMENT? 327 

turbing the even flow of our daily lives and the estab- 
lished order of our ideas ; and, in addition, we refuse 
to admit other people's standards of entertainment. 
Now, that isn't fair. Of course everybody goes to 
the theatre to be entertained. Art exists for no 
other purpose than to entertain — to occupy the 
mind, to add a super-meaning and grace and charm 
to life. Art is a measure of the richness and happi- 
ness of a civilization. But entertainment and 
amusement are not the same thing, and so this popu- 
lar (and wholly correct) belief that the theatre exists 
to entertain has been converted into an evil influence 
by the confusion of the two terms. 

Indeed, even amusement is a relative term. As 
Gilbert said, it may be funny to sit down in a pork 
pie, but you don't have to sit down in a pork pie to 
be funny. Some people laugh at the pork pie school 
of comedians — others prefer Gilbert. But enter- 
tainment is a much broader term than amusement, 
embracing all the various appeals of the allied arts 
of the theatre, and unless our theatre is broad enough 
to meet the various demands of various people, it is 
but partially fulfilling its function. Let us look 
more carefully at some of these possible demands, let 
us try to see if entertainment cannot be found in 
quarters unsuspected, let us try to see if the stan- 



328 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

dard of what is entertaining is not, even for the indi- 
vidual, a changeable thing, which can be raised and 
even altered completely by a little effort on his part. 
We demand of children that they alter their stan- 
dards in the process of education. Why should all 
the rest of us cease in our growth the day we leave 
school, or cast our first vote? 

Let us take first the matter of scenery. The first 
function of scenery, without question, is to supply 
an illusion of place. But need its function stop 
there? And are there not various degrees, even va- 
rious kinds of illusion? Why should we not find 
entertainment, then, in watching scenic experiments 
in the theater, and so give encouragement to the ex- 
perimenters? Our stage has made practically no 
progress on the mechanical side, while the stages of 
Europe have been hotbeds of experiment, calling 
forth the best talents of architects and painters. 
That is solely because we, the American public, can- 
not see "entertainment" in anything different from 
the comfortable routine to which we are accustomed. 

When a scene is set up for an hour before our 
eyes, is there any sensible reason why it should not, 
in addition to creating the proper illusion of place, 
also give us pure aesthetic pleasure on its own ac- 
count? Indeed, there is every reason why it should. 



WHAT IS ENTERTAINMENT? 329 

If you buy even knives and forks and plates to eat 
with, you strive also to buy attractive ones, decora- 
tive ones. Why, then, should not a stage picture 
compose into harmonies of color and design, why 
should it not please the eye? Let us keep watch on 
the stage pictures we see, let us give encouragement 
to the producers who have the courage to throw about 
half the furniture now used into the cellar and to 
substitute for the present restless and meaningless 
crisscrossings and wanderings about of the players 
significant and attractive groupings. Let us encour- 
age, as well, those producers who, in plays which 
permit of a romantic or poetic treatment, dare to get 
away from the conventional pasteboard and give us 
decorations of line and color. Let us, in short, find 
entertainment in the scene-painter's and decorator's 
art. 

Another phase of the drama in which the general 
mass of theater-goers fail to find entertainment, very 
largely because it has never occurred to them to look 
for it there, is the dialogue of the play — that is, the 
literary charm of the writing. It goes without say- 
ing that if a play is to endure it must be not only 
effective dramatically but it must be written with 
sufficient literary style to withstand the acid test of 
print. However, in the past, few plays were ever 



33o PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

printed (fortunately, the Drama League and other 
influences have begun to alter that condition), and 
even to-day few people stop to consider whether or 
not a play has enduring qualities. Its immediate 
appeal for the one evening when they have paid 
their money for seats is all that concerns them. 

Yet what an added source of entertainment firm, 
well-knit writing is — writing which possesses style! 
You have only to contrast the dialogue of Somerset 
Maugham's "The Land of Promise" with that of 
Moody's "The Great Divide" (two plays of strik- 
ingly similar theme), to realize this. Mr. Moody 
was a poet, and the mere fact that he was writing in 
prose did not prevent him from writing beautifully, 
with passages of emotional fervor and sudden flights 
of imaginative suggestion. Neither did his people 
speak out of character, which would have been fatal 
in such a play. He had the sense for style, how- 
ever, and from the mouth of his rough hero, in rough 
words, came shaggy similes which lifted the hearer. 
When Miss Anglin revived "Lady Windermere's 
Fan" last spring, the incomparably brilliant dia- 
logue of Oscar Wilde, clean cut at every angle like 
a diamond, fell deliciously on the ear. One of the 
reasons for the success of certain plays by A. E. 
Thomas — "The Rainbow" and "Her Husband's 



WHAT IS ENTERTAINMENT? 331 

Wife" — is undoubtedly the graceful phrasing, life- 
like but never merely the sloppy conversation of the 
ordinary "man in the street." 

We have carried the cult of realism too far in our 
theater, till our plays have become, indeed, so real- 
istic that they are not even true of the majority. 
Only a small section of the public, in its most care- 
less hours, ever talks as slangily and sloppily as the 
characters in a Cohan comedy or any one of half a 
hundred recent American dramas we might name. 
Moreover, if realism means that we shall hear no 
more beautiful language on our stage, no more care- 
ful phrasing, no more poetic figure nor eloquent 
period, then let us have done with realism for good 
and all! Fortunately, however, men and women 
still exist who can and do talk well and carefully 
and eloquently. We should find entertainment in 
seeing them represented on the stage, and in the skill 
of any playwright who can achieve by his style the 
charm of well-knit, virile, beautiful dialogue. 

But this matter of style in plays goes far deeper 
than the mere literary quality of the dialogue. It 
goes to the roots of the construction of the play, and 
betrays the master craftsman (or the bungler) in a 
hundred ways. With a very slightly increased at- 
tention on our part we may find an added entertain- 



332 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

ment in observing good workmanship, which will 
compensate us, perhaps, tor the diminished enter- 
tainment we shall thereafter rind in poor. 

If you pay ten thousand dollars tor a house you 
demand good workmanship, and you look for it care- 
fully. Why not when you pay two dollars for a 
play i A real love for good workmanship is as much 
disclosed by the one demand as the other. Indeed, 
if the demand does not exist in both cases the real 
love is not there. 

Let us consider the telephone: the telephone 
is a beneficent invention, and it has benefited 
nobody so much as the dramatist. Think how 
lew plays of contemporary life you now see 
without a telephone on the stage. Is it there 
to give a realistic touch 4 ? It is not. It is there 
to help the dramatist get his plot across; and 
a very potent help it is. J. M. Barrie in his comical 
burlesque, "A Slice of Life," which Ethel Barn-more 
acted two or three winters ago, made fun of this use 
of the telephone. Each character, as he or she en- 
tered, rang somebody up, in order to announce his 
or her name for the benefit of the audience. 

"Is this you, Father*?'' asked Miss Barrymore in 
a languid voice. '"This is your daughter, Mrs. Hy- 
phen-Brown — you remember." 



WHAT IS ENTERTAINMENTS $33 

None :: Mr. Barr.e's characters. :: course, said 
any more, which was what made it funny. In s erious 
plays they hold real conversations, however, and thus 
the audience can learn who they are and something 
arret mem. withrut me necessity :: aaa iticnai :.:,:- 
acters ::: them to talk to. The telephone Eims takes 
its place as a new and up-to-date device for helping 
the dramatist get hi s plot a : : : s s 

D:a yon eva stag: :: realize what a task it e :: 
get a plot across'? It looks easy, and the better it is 
done the easier it looks. When it is done by a mas- 
ter it doesn't seem to be done at all. Several hun- 
dred thousand would-be dramatists all over the 
United States think they can do it, and every mana- 
ger's office is bombarded with mamas trims. But 
play reader can testify from bitter experience 
that in not more than one out of rive hundred :: 
these manuscripts is ::.: plot successfully got across. 
What looks 90 easy is perhaps the most difficult task 
that confronts the craftsman in any branch :: lit- 
erature. 

Consider tor a moment this task, in the very Gist 
act. Tar program tells your audience where the 
scene is. ana the names ;: me :hara:ters — ana n: 
mere The audience when :ae rurtam rises a:es not 
kno~ whi :h character on the stage is John Smith and 



334 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

which is James Brown, it does not know anything 
about their past lives, or their present condition. 
Obviously, the first thing the author has to do is to 
introduce his characters to his audience, and the sec- 
ond thing he has to do is to tell the audience all 
about them. 

But how is he going to do this? He cannot say 
anything himself, as a novelist can in a book. He 
cannot begin with an introductory chapter telling the 
secret history of their great-grandfathers. The min- 
ute the curtain rises and the characters are disclosed, 
the poor author has got to get out of sight and let 
the characters do all the talking. Now, people in 
daily life don't go around as a rule telling who they 
are and all about themselves. They don't have to. 
How, then, is the author going to let you know what 
you must know about these people, without making 
them act in a ridiculous manner? And remember, 
too, he has only three-quarters of an hour, at most, to 
do it in — really not that long, for his first act must 
go forward as well as explain the past. 

Easy, eh? Why do so many plays (or rather, 
why did they) open with a scene between a stiff- 
necked butler with a British accent, and a pert 
French maid in a short black skirt? Is it because 



WHAT IS ENTERTAINMENT? 335 

these two characters are funny? No. They ceased 
being funny long ago — if they ever were. It is be- 
cause the butler is supposed to know all about the 
family affairs, particularly "the master's," and the 
maid to know all about her mistress, and both are 
supposed to like to gossip on such subjects, so they 
can explain the family history more or less plausibly 
to the audience, and finally cry, " 'Sh — here comes 
the master now !" Out they scurry, and you know 
the man who enters is Mr. Beaumont Smith, that 
he's carrying on with an actress, that his wife sus- 
pects him, and that she's going in disguise that night 
to the French Ball to catch him at his pranks. Dear 
old butler, pert French maid, many a drama could 
never have been launched without your aid! The 
telephone is rapidly superseding you, driving you 
out of employment, but we shall always hold you in 
grateful memory! 

Another potent aid to the dramatist is the "Do 
you remember?" speech. This speech is usually 
made by a man to a woman. Ostensibly it is done 
to soften the woman's heart, perhaps, but really it 
is done to explain the plot to the audience. 

"Do you remember the low light on the hills that 
day, and the smell of violets? Your hand lay 



336 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

clasped in mine, and I almost forgot that I was 
working for the Sugar Trust at ten dollars a week, 
and so couldn't ask you to marry me." 

"Aha!" we cry, delighted at our perspicacity, 
"this young man has loved this girl a long time, but 
has been too proud to ask her to pledge herself to 
him till he could support her in the manner to which 
she was unaccustomed!" 

Exactly! Such was the practical purpose of all 
the poetry. 

Dramatists sometimes have a harder time now 
than they used to, in spite of the telephone, because 
that old Viking and idol-smasher, Ibsen, has made 
away with the soliloquy. The soliloquy was a very 
present help in time of trouble. After all, it wasn't 
so very dreadful. The characters but thought 
aloud. The novelist can tell the thoughts of his 
characters for whole pages. But now convention 
decrees that the poor dramatist mustn't do anything 
of the kind. His characters must not say anything 
they would not be willing that the other characters 
should hear ! Iago, when he is alone with the audi- 
ence, does not hesitate to tell them just the kind 
of a man he really is, and what he secretly intends 
to do. But nowadays, if a dramatist permitted one 
of his characters to do that, he would have every 



WHAT IS ENTERTAINMENT? 337 

critic in the country landing on him with both feet. 
He has got to find some other way of explaining the 
character, either by introducing a second congenial 
character for the first to talk to, or by letting deeds 
speak for themselves. 

The "Oh, look out there !" speech is another favor- 
ite device. This is used for two purposes — to "work 
up an entrance," or to make vivid to the audience 
something which in the nature of things cannot be 
shown on the actual stage. Examples of either use 
will occur to the reader at once. 

In one of Rostand's plays, "La Princess Loin- 
taine," the stage shows the deck of a ship. The 
sailors rush to the rail and look off excitedly into the 
wings. "A boat is leaving the shore!" they cry. 
And they describe to each other its passage over the 
water and the Princess sitting in it, and work them- 
selves up to a high pitch of excitement — and sup- 
posedly work the audience up as well — so that the 
actress playing the Princess finally enters the scene 
with all eyes focused upon her, which is something 
all actresses greatly desire. 

You remember "Quo Vadis," no doubt? When 
the play was produced great posters depicted a naked 
damsel on the back of a bull, and a gigantic man 
grasping the bull's horns and breaking its neck. 



338 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

Rather a piquant stage situation, you thought, and 
hastened to the theater. But you didn't see there 
any naked lady on a bull's back while a giant broke 
the creature's neck. You saw the spectators looking 
excitedly into the wings at the stage hands, and 
telling each other that the bull's neck was being 
broken. Of course, its neck had to be broken, and 
the audience had to know it was broken, or the story 
couldn't go on. But, since modern actors are not 
trained to break bull's necks, it had to happen off 
stage. 

Poor old Pete Dailey, who was such a tower of 
humor in the Weber and Fields company, once put 
the prick of burlesque into this technical balloon. 
He was supposed to enter upon the stage from a din- 
ner party in the next room, and his entrance was 
followed by the sound of applause from the invisible 
diners. Jerking his thumb back toward the wings, 
he remarked, "Jolly dogs, those stage hands !" 

Did you ever stop to think why there is so often 
a deep, dark villain in the drama? He is there be- 
cause something has got to happen to your hero or 
your heroine, or you'll have no drama, at least ac- 
cording to orthodox ideas. Mr. Shaw won't agree. 
Now in this world most of us are our own villains, 
our struggles are with ourselves, and our misfortunes 



WHAT IS ENTERTAINMENT? 339 

result more from our own failures, or our weaknesses, 
or our doctor's bills, or the price of coal, than from 
the dark plottings of an enemy. But in the drama 
these things are very hard to get across, because they 
are more or less spiritual, or at least invisible. It 
is, however, comparatively easy to get over a contest 
between two separate and definitely seen personal- 
ities. Therefore the villain still pursues her, even 
in some of the plays of Ibsen. 

If it is hard to write a first act, it is still harder 
to write a last. Indeed, it seems to be almost im- 
possible, so few good ones are ever written. Up 
to the last act, the author's job is to get everybody 
as mixed up and down-hearted and hopelessly licked 
as possible, and then, in a brief half hour, he has to 
get his wife back in her husband's good opinion, the 
lovers back in each other's arms, the missing child 
restored, the lost will found, the drunkard sobered 
up, the black sheep reformed and owning a gold 
mine out West. Anybody who has tackled the job 
of reforming a black sheep or reconciling a hope- 
lessly mismated couple, knows it's a job that cannot 
be performed between ten-thirty and eleven of the 
evening. But the dramatist has to do it, and make 
it seem as plausible and logical as he can. If he 
doesn't, we (and our wives) declare his play "ends 



340 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

unhappily/' and refuse to have anything more to 
do with it. 

The dramatist, then, without any tools save the 
conversation of the characters in his play, has to tell 
his audience who these characters are, what they 
have been doing before the play begins, what sort of 
folk they are; he has to lead them through a series 
of adventures constantly increasing in tension or 
excitement; and finally he has to solve as logically 
as he may the various problems their actions have 
raised. He never can speak for himself, he must 
always speak through the mouths of his characters, 
and he must do it all in three hours. No wonder 
he is hard put to it for devices. 

The best play, of course, other things being equal, 
is the one in which the characters reveal themselves 
so naturally that we are not aware they are doing 
it, and in which every speech which explains the past 
is also directly related to the present and the future; 
and in which, finally, the solution is not forced, but 
a natural and inevitable outgrowth of the characters. 
In the best plays, we are least conscious of the means 
employed to get the plot across. The first act of 
Augustus Thomas's "As a Man Thinks" is perhaps 
one of the best modern examples of the dramatist's 
art completely concealing itself. We watch a group 



WHAT IS ENTERTAINMENT? 341 

of people chatting over afternoon tea, and before 
we are aware of it we know all about their past and 
are eager to learn what their future is going to be. 
Thinking it over afterward, we see how craftily it 
was done. The skill of this act may be called dra- 
matic style in the fullest sense, embracing pith and 
dignity and thrust of language, exposition so na- 
turally made that we are never conscious that the 
characters are explaining themselves for our benefit, 
and all the time a direct forward march of the story, 
so that when the act ends we sense the problem and 
are nearer to its heart. 

Is there no entertainment to be found in the un- 
folding of a play so written? Are we to be so heed- 
less and childish as theatergoers that we absorb any 
story, regardless of its workmanship? Are we to 
have no standards of dramatic style, so that clumsy 
exposition and the failure to cover the bare bones 
of the plot do not hurt us? Until we do have such 
standards, we shall have no native drama worthy of 
serious consideration. 

For the more obvious entertainment to be found 
in ideas, in the drama which takes a definite point 
of view on life or some social problem, there is 
hardly time to speak now. Such a drama, if its 
viewpoint is sound, and if it is well written, is fairly 



342 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

sure to make its way, even if slowly. We have 
perhaps said enough to show, at any rate, that the 
pleasure of theatergoing need not be narrowly and 
childishly confined to an entertaining story — that 
those who so desire may find stimulation along 
almost every line of esthetic attack, or may at least 
look for it. If they fail to find it, they have a per- 
fect right to complain that our theater is not yet 
fulfilling its entire function and its whole duty. 



A QUIET EVENING IN THE THEATRE 

1914 

A quiet evening in New York! You go first to 
a restaurant for dinner, where, as you enter, a cloak 
boy (or more often girl) seizes your coat and hat. 
There is noise and confusion in the dining-room. 
The ceiling, much too low for comfort, is painful 
with lights. The tables are filled with people all 
talking at once, at the top of their voices. They 
have to talk at the top of their voices because if they 
didn't they couldn't hear themselves, let alone hear- 
ing the other fellow. The reason is that they are 
talking against a full orchestra, sawing rag time 
against the sounding-board of the too-low ceiling. 

Every now and then, to be sure, this music ceases, 
and then comes a blessed sensation of comparative 
quiet, broken only by the chatter of 200 people, the 
clatter of dishes, the feet of the waiters. It is much 
like the sensation experienced when water, which 
has got into your ear while swimming, all of a sud- 
den is released. But this blissfully normal condi- 

343 



344 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

tion does not last long. You have just begun to 
enjoy your roast and your table-mate's talk, when 
crash, bang, zim, teum-tum goes the band again, and 
the plug goes back into your ears, till against the 
eardrums is the roaring of Niagara. 

After this pleasant meal, you and your friend 
start out for the theatre, having tipped the waiter 
enough to buy 10,783 cauliflower seeds, which, when 
grown, would be worth $1078.30, at the very least. 
The trip to the theatre is uneventful. If you take 
a taxi you merely have the sensation, so dear to the 
heart of the New Yorker, of being robbed. If you 
walk, you encounter no more exciting adventures 
than being spattered with mud, nearly run down, 
deafened by the roar of an elevated train over your 
head, and made hoarse by trying to talk against the 
opposition of Manhattan street traffic. Presently 
you reach the theatre where the popular play you 
wish to see is being presented. 

Of course, you already have your tickets, pur- 
chased at a hotel for $2.50 each (or more), and you 
take your seats one minute before the time adver- 
tised for the curtain to rise. Then you look about 
you at the tiers of empty chairs and wonder why this 
play is called a success. In fact, you don't begin 
to realize why until a quarter or even a half hour 






QUIET EVENING IN THE THEATRE 345 

later, when the curtain at last goes up and the play 
begins. 

Then the people begin to come. They descend 
the aisles talking. They climb over your feet. 
They step on your hat. They bang down their 
chairs. They make a noise taking off their wraps. 
They rustle and fidget and cough. The last of them 
do not get in and settled down till the first act is 
nearly over. What the first act has all been about 
you have but the vaguest notion. It has been plain 
that the actors were working very hard, and shouting 
very loud. That fat actor is hoarse and perspiring, 
like a man who has been trying to harangue a mob 
armed with fish-horns to drown his efforts. You 
are rather sorry for the actors. You are even more 
sorry for yourself. You are not sure that the act 
was uninteresting. Being young, you still are opti- 
mistic. 

Then comes a breathing spell. Thanks to David 
Belasco, pioneer, theatre orchestras have been more 
or less given up, and during the first intermission 
your ears are rested, and in the dim "artistic" light 
of the modern playhouse, hearing only the meaning- 
less buz of 1200 people all talking at once, you find 
refreshment reading "What the Men Will Wear" 
in your programme. 



346 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

Then the second act begins. You very soon dis- 
cover that all the actors have got the habit. The 
play, of course, is a farce (the programme says a 
comedy). Have we not stated that it was a suc- 
cessful play? The actors are, therefore, b' 
funny. There is no doubt about it, or at least they 
don't intend that there shall be any doubt about it. 
All during the first act they knew they had to shout 
to make themselves heard in Row A above the din 
of falling chair seats and the multifold rustle of ar- 
rival. Now they just keep right on shouting. 
Shouting has become second nature to them. Some- 
body once spoke of an actor who "wafted an epi- 
gram across the footlights." He was a prehistoric 
relic — or Marie Cahill. When an actor now has 
an epigram to convey, he plays he is a German 
howitzer and the audience is Rheims Cathedral, and 
he puts in the full charge and lets her bang. While 
the big, bow-wow actor is playing he is a German 
howitzer, all the other actors play they are thr 
inch field pieces discharging shrapnel at the galk- 
Of course, they can't all be firing at once, but at 
least they can be changing positions, getting into 
more favorable cover to shell the boxes or bombard 
the balcony. 

A batten* doesn't change its position, of course, 



QUIET EVENING IN THE THEATRE 347 

without a deal of noise and bustle. Therefor the 
stage seems to be in a constant state of hubbub and 
confusion. The stage directors' copy of the script 
must look something like this : 

Chas. — "You're a liar!" (Xs left and lights a 
cigarette. ) 

Jerome — "Don't you dare call me a liar. 
You're another!" (Xs right and sits down.) 

Marcia (Rising from the window seat) — "Gen- 
tlemen, gentlemen, I beg that you will not quarrel 
on account of me. Poor little me — I am not worth 
it. Besides, it was not my Pomeranian, anyhow." 
(Comes down stage showing how her gown is cut, 
and lifts her arms high over her head, showing the 
dimples in her elbows.) 

Chas. — "Not your Pom?" (Xs right, clenching 
fists and stamping feet, and looks out of the win- 
dow.) 

Jerome — "Not your Pom 1 ?" (Crosses left and 
kicks a footstool into the fireplace.) 

Marcia (walking right, then left, across stage 
to each man and putting her arms on his shoulders, 
leaving powder marks) — "No, not my Pom!" 
(Goes up stage and poses by the draperies.) 

Chas. (raising hands to heaven and Xing left) 
—"Damn!" 



348 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

Jerome (Xing right and biting the end off a 
cigar, spitting it into the footlights) — "Hell !" 

At this witty sally the audience laughs uproar- 
iously, and the actors "hold the picture." 

American stage management, as we see it at the 
present time in our "best-seller" type of drama, pro- 
duces, in fact, very much the same effect as modern 
dance music — din and monotony are its character- 
istics. Every sentence must be shouted, every 
"point" driven home with an exaggerated emphasis, 
accompanied by an exaggerated gesture, which cor- 
responds to the whack of the big bass drum. It is 
against the rules to sit, stand or recline in any one 
spot for more than a minute at a time unless you are 
a pretty actress in a bed. Then you may stay there, 
if you bounce up and down at regular intervals. 
"We must have action," the manager cries, by which 
he means that the actors must run about, like the 
dancing mice in a shop window. Perhaps it is only 
natural that folks who like ragtime like this sort of 
thing. But it is the "art" of semi-barbarians. 

The leader of the cult of St. Vitus and the Bull 
of Bashan is undoubtedly the clever Mr. Cohan. 
He is to drama and stage management what Irving 
Berlin is to music. If he staged "Macbeth" it 
would be in rag-time. How the actors rush in and 



QUIET EVENING IN THE THEATRE 349 

out, hurry and shout, bustle and perspire, in one of 
his plays! They are never still a second. No 
"scene," in the French sense, lasts more than five 
minutes, just as there is no paragraph more than ten 
lines long in Munsefs Magazine. The scenes are 
often clever, but how very noisy! The pace, the 
racket, bewilders you, hypnotizes you. You feel, 
when you come out of the theatre, that you have cer- 
tainly got your money's worth of something, any- 
how. 

When you come away from "A Pair of Silk Stock- 
ings" at Mr. Ames's Little Theatre, you don't feel 
that you've had your money's worth. Nobody has 
shouted, nobody has rushed around. At times, for 
two or three minutes on a stretch, the actors and 
actresses sat in their chairs in drawing-room or cham- 
ber and talked just the way people really do talk. 
Why pay $2 for this sort of thing*? It's as much 
of a swindle as Garrick's Hamlet seemed to Part- 
ridge. 

Of course, it wasn't "A Pair of Silk Stockings" 
that you and your friend went to see when you spent 
your happy evening in New York. More likely you 
went to "It Pays to Advertise," or some really good 
production where the actors really act and earn their 
miserable salaries. 



35o PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

After it was over, of course you went somewhere 
for supper. Once more there was the too low ceil- 
ing, the clatter of dishes, the crash of rag-time, the 
chatter of screaming voices trying to make them- 
selves heard above the din, and now, in addition, 
the shuffle of one-stepping feet upon the dance floor. 
Somewhere around one or two o'clock you headed 
through a deserted side street toward your lodging, 
and suddenly became aware of a queer atmospheric 
condition known as silence. It made you dizzy at 
first. Gradually, too, you became aware of a thing 
up above the end of the street which memory told 
you was a star in the sky. 

Presently you caught your bed when it came 
around, climbed in, and dreamed that you were 
armed with a Ross rifle defending a trench labelled 
Row H, from the assaults of seventeen thousand 
actors and actresses and Marie Dressier, who were 
charging upon you with strange cries and violent 
gestures, and hurling shells filled with frightful, 
jagged fragments of the English language. 

Such is a quiet evening in the American theatre. 



MIDDLE-AGED MORALIZING FOR 
YEASTY YOUNGSTERS 

1915 

A fear haunts us that we are reaching that period 
of life James Huneker once called his anecdotage. 
At any rate, we are more and more given in the the- 
atre to reminiscences and memories of "the palmy 
days" — said palmy days for us being the eighteen- 
nineties and the first few years of the present cen- 
tury. Quaint as it may seem to older people to 
speak of the eighteen-nineties as the palmy days 
(they were, after all, but yesterday), we are con- 
stantly being mournfully impressed with the fact 
that a new generation has sprung suddenly into 
active being which never went to plays in the eigh- 
teen-nineties, which never adored Julia Marlowe as 
Juliet, nor shed scalding tears at Mrs. Fiske's Tess, 
nor hailed the advent of "The Second Mrs. Tan- 
queray" as the swimming of a new planet into their 
ken, nor even realized Clyde Fitch as a contempo- 
rary. We talk with theatre-goers in New York to- 

35i 



352 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

day, in fact, who have never seen a play by Clyde 
Fitch on the stage, and know James A. Heme only 
as a name, not a memory. Whereupon we feel 
"chilly and grown old," and begin to narrate anec- 
dotes about "Shore Acres" or "The Climbers." 

Those were hopeful days, the eighteen-nineties ! 
Henry Arthur Jones was preaching "The Great 
Realities of Modern Life," and William Winter 
was thundering against Ibsen. Now, when a play 
by Ibsen is produced, nobody thunders. Where is 
the fun in fighting for a man if nobody fights against 
him? Now, pretty much anything can be produced 
(not that it is, but it could be) without arousing 
protest and hostility. And, alas! a certain zest is 
gone. Art, like anything else, thrives on battle 
smoke and martyrdom. We youngsters were boast- 
ing of what the passing generation scorned, even 
abominated. We saw a new dawn on the horizon, 
a new drama, a theatrical renaissance. Even when 
we had to score Fitch for his frivolities and conces- 
sions to "popular taste," we still upheld him as a 
worker in the native vineyard, a butterfly, perhaps, 
but a butterfly with genius. We battled, later, for 
"The Easiest Way" — ageing, it is true, but still 
hopeful. 

But all that is past history. Now, when we are 



MIDDLE-AGED MORALIZING 353 

"chilly and grown old," we look about us on the 
American stage and wonder what became of our re- 
naissance, wonder where that sun of American drama 
is which had flushed pink the eastern sky, wonder 
what there is to fight for. Alas! there isn't even 
a William Winter to fight against. 

These melancholy reflections have been inspired by 
a visit to Mr. Anspacher's play, "The Unchastened 
Woman." "The Unchastened Woman," to be sure, 
is a popular success and, in our humble judgment, 
deservedly so. Why, then, should it inspire us to 
melancholy? Because — and here we get into our 
anecdotage — it is so much like a Fitch play, because 
it is a character study of a frivolous and selfish 
woman, gaining its appeal from that study rather 
than from mere narrative excitement, or farcical situ- 
ation, or machine-made slang; and also because it 
gives the players a chance to act — not to show off 
a few pretty personal tricks, but really to act, to 
impersonate. Of such stuff was "The Truth" and 
"The Girl with the Green Eyes." 

Still you fail to see why we are afflicted with 
melancholy at the spectacle? Simply because New 
York is utterly amazed at the novelty of such a 
drama! A few old gray beards of criticism who 
have withstood the long siege of the advertising de- 



354 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

partments, have written, to be sure, about the char- 
acter, discussing whether or not she is probable and 
agreeing that she isn't pleasant. But not so the 
youngsters. They are too surprised to debate 
whether she is probable, or to care whether she is 
pleasant. The great, stunning, overwhelming fact 
is that she is a character, that her moods and emo- 
tions condition the story, and that the actress who 
plays her (Miss Emily Stevens) is so busy trying 
to be the part that it is fun to watch. These young- 
sters have even been too astonished to say that Miss 
Stevens talks like her cousin, Mrs. Fiske. Perhaps, 
indeed, they have never seen Mrs. Fiske ! For she, 
too, belongs back in the Golden Age. Isn't it just 
a little pathetic when a good play which merely does 
what a good play ought to do, excites such wonder 
and admiration because it does it*? Isn't that a 
rather bitter commentary on the plays which must 
have preceded it? 

Not long ago we wrote a little piece about the 
movies, and from our lofty ground of superior years 
and old-fashioned standards bewailed the fact that 
the stories they tell are trash. Rising up in defence 
of the movies comes a youngster, and with lance at 
rest, charges upon us full tilt in all the confidence 
of his youth. We know when to run. We know 



MIDDLE-AGED MORALIZING 355 

that it is no use trying to fight youth. "Where on 
the American dramatic stage, in the past ten years, 
has Mr. Eaton seen plays, the plots of which weren't 
trash?" asks the boy, poking his lance into our ribs, 
before our lame old Rosinante can carry us away. 

"The past ten years!" Oh, youth, youth! The 
past ten years is the decade of Cohan and Megrue, 
of Edna Ferber and Montague Glass, of Al. Woods 
and the Winter Garden. Fitch is dead, and Walter 
appears to have shot his bolt, and Moody has been 
cut off in his prime. The rising sun took a peep at 
theatrical conditions, saw a movie or two, and 
flopped back below the horizon. Yes, my lad, you 
are right — sadly we admit it. But it wasn't always 
so. Eleven years ago, now — ! Or, say, twenty 
years ago, when you were rejoicing in your first 
knickbockers, ah, then it was different ! Why, then 
we even used to see fine acting ! 

Acting! We went recently to "The Two Vir- 
tues," by Alfred Sutro, acted by Mr. Sothern at the 
Booth Theatre, and once more we felt "chilly and 
grown old." How old-fashioned Mr. Sothern im- 
pressed us as being — and Haidee Wright, too. 
Why, here was an actor supposed to be representing 
a man of intellectual force, of gracious manners, of 
sly humor, of breeding and charm. And Mr. 



356 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

Sothern didn't once try the entire evening to look 
intellectual, or to show his gracious manners, or to 
be humorous, or to have the charm of breeding. It 
was a stupid performance. Any man of intellect, 
good manners, breeding, humor and charm, would 
have been just like him. He didn't act at all. He 
didn't act any more than Garrick did the night Part- 
ridge saw him play Hamlet. Any of our younger 
generation of actors can tell you that it is quite im- 
possible to represent these things without trying very 
hard. Of course, off stage, a regular fellow isn't 
like that at all ! 

Another thing — Mr. Sothern had so much up his 
sleeve! Nowadays, when a player is called upon 
to let his voice out you suffer agony for fear he's 
going to snap a vocal chord. But when Mr. Sothern 
bellows "No" — why, it's not half so loud as he could 
shout it, and you feel quite easy. Again, he is 
called on to drop a pretty phrase — something about 
myrrh and honey — and instead of being ashamed 
of it he rolls it like a sweet morsel under the tongue 
and you hear an echo of Shakespearean iambics be- 
fore your mind proceeds ahead with the play. Still 
again, for a second he drops his defence of banter 
and lets a single sentence of simple sincerity stab 
through — and like magic a tense hush falls on the 



MIDDLE-AGED MORALIZING 357 

entire audience, and in a thousand throats the breath 
is caught. It is so easy for the big fellows. Who 
can do it today? Tell us their names, oh youth. 

Well, well, there is an answer somewhere, and 
presently we shall go hopefully to work again and 
find it, but just for this evening we claim an old 
fellow's privilege to sit in the corner and growl. 
There is a certain comfortable feeling steals over you 
when you finally admit that you are middle-aged, 
after all, and resign to the youngsters the job of 
justifying the ways of the movies to man. The old 
fellow in "Fanny's First Play" said that for him 
England's anthem would always be "God Save the 
Queen." Some day our mistrustful lad will under- 
stand that speech. He cannot yet. 



ON LETTING THE PLAYERS ALONE 

1915 

Last year, during the rehearsals of a play which 
was soon to be shown on Broadway, I talked with 
the actress who was to play the leading woman's 
part. She was, she said, in a state of great perplex- 
ity, because the author wished her to play the part 
in one way, the manager in another. "When the 
manager isn't there I play it the author's way," she 
said. "When he is there I play it his." 

"But what are you going to do on the opening 
night ?" I asked. 

Her frown of perplexity vanished in one of those 
smiles which add fifty dollars a week to her salary. 
"Oh, I am going to play it my way then !" said she. 

As a matter of fact, she did. As the play was a 
success, due in no small measure to her, she was 
allowed to continue so to do. But not all players 
are so clever, nor so daring, as she. William Win- 
ter, who when it came to acting knew a thing or two 

before most of us were born, always affirmed that 

358 



ON LETTING THE PLAYERS ALONE 359 

a great trouble with our latter-day stage manage- 
ment is the lack of liberty allowed the actors to de- 
velop their parts according to their personal vision 
and capacity. He was quite right, and the state- 
ment still holds true. 

We generally think of David Belasco as our lead- 
ing stage manager, certainly as our most painstak- 
ing and thorough stage manager. Yet I never 
talked with a player who had been under his tutelage 
who did not say proudly, "Why, he let me play my 
whole part for two weeks without telling me how 
to read a single line !" Some actors tell you this as 
a compliment to themselves, but some are wise 
enough to realize that in reality it is a compliment 
to Mr. Belasco. A man who has been in scores of 
plays under nearly every management in New York 
and several in continental Europe, told me the other 
day that there were only three real stage managers 
in America. Who the other two were, in his opin- 
ion, I refuse to divulge. Personally, I think there 
are at least a couple more. But the first, of course, 
was Belasco. 

"I have just been rehearsing in a play staged by 
the author," said this actor, "and he has been show- 
ing all of us how to read his lines. He has spent 
hours showing us. The result will be that not a 



360 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

one of us will give a self- realized, spontaneous, 
fluent performance. We shall all be more or less 
stiff, and some of the less experienced will approxi- 
mate parrots. I consider that stage management at 
its very worst. Under Belasco the case is entirely 
different. He often lets you quite alone for days, 
even for weeks, at a time, allowing you to feel out 
the part in your own way, and trusting you to make 
it fit the general scheme of things by making the gen- 
eral scheme clear at all rehearsals. He believes, I 
suppose, that a man can do his best work only in his 
own way, not in another man's way. There would 
be nothing authentic about a composer's music if 
somebody told him just how he should write every 
bar. There would be nothing exactly inspired 
about the poetry of a poet who was told by some- 
body else how he must write every line. I've no- 
ticed there's not even any good criticism written on 
papers which dictate to their critics. An actor, too, 
in so far as he is an artist, a creator — and certainly 
you've got to admit he is one to some extent — must 
be allowed to do things in his own way if the things 
he does are to have the stamp of inspiration and 
authenticity. It is just as easy to detect the parrot 
in acting as in music or poetry. 

"Well, Belasco understands that. He's like a 



ON LETTING THE PLAYERS ALONE 361 

good editor who lets his staff be original, and so gets 
truly readable copy. Of course, he sometimes has 
to take a player in hand, and very often when the 
play reaches a point where the general effect is more 
important than the individual performances he will 
step in and make everyone conform to the effect he 
desires. But that is part of his excellence as a stage 
director, too. He keeps his units together, as well 
as letting each have individual freedom. When 
people talk of the fine acting in his plays, however, 
it usually means that it is spontaneous acting, each 
player having worked out more or less his own 
scheme for his part and therefore taking a vastly 
greater pride and interest in it." 

Such is the substance of this experienced actor's 
remarks. We believe they are true words, and 
words which might well be pondered. A play is 
more or less a lifeless thing, at the mercy of the pro- 
ducer and the players. The line between success 
and failure is again and again crossed on one side or 
the other as the acting and production are good or 
bad. This season, for instance, "The Boomerang" 
at the Belasco Theatre is a great success ; but it might 
easily have seemed nothing but a trite and trivial 
comedy at another theatre. The more delicate a 
work is, the more subtle, the more closely localized, 



362 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

the finer its literary polish, the more dependent it 
becomes upon its production. 

We have a great many people in this country 
engaged in the "business" of producing plays. We 
have surprisingly few genuine producers, who under- 
stand alike dramatic and literary values, and who 
are capable of appraising and giving instruction in 
the delicate art of acting. Just as a painter is im- 
patient of any criticism save that of a fellow crafts- 
man, a good actor quite naturally feels that perhaps 
he knows more about his own job than a layman. 
Certainly, he knows, as every other artist in every 
other branch of art knows, that self expression is 
the only kind worth striving for, and nothing worth 
while is ever achieved that isn't a form of self ex- 
pression. To develop actors, the actors must be 
given a chance. To give them a chance under 
proper guidance, under guidance which will keep 
them in the bounds of the play and which they will 
respect, the stage managers must be artists — not 
necessarily actors, perhaps, though as a rule actors 
probably make the best stage directors — but cer- 
tainly men of the theatre in the true sense, men 
whose interest is in the creation of artistic effects, 
not in "putting over" another winner. 

The late Frank Worthing probably taught more 



ON LETTING THE PLAYERS ALONE 363 

young players to act in his day than any score of 
stage managers. He taught Grace George, among 
others. He played a part as only he could, and the 
young actor playing with him strove not to read his 
lines as author or director might order, but as they 
should be read to fit into the rhythm of Worthing's 
performance. He (or she) strove to measure up 
to the art of that gifted player, and by feeling the 
spur of emulation and trying out what was learned 
in actual performance, made some of Worthing's 
art his own. Just so Mrs. Fiske has been known to 
tell a player in her company to go ahead and take 
the scene away from her if he could. That was a 
spur to make any player spurt. That was one 
reason why Mrs. Fiske's companies used to shine. 

At any rate, one thing is certain; the ranks of the 
actors may or may not be overcrowded, but the ranks 
of the competent stage managers most assuredly are 
not. One has only to make the round of the New 
York theatres and see the horrid pitch-fork methods 
employed by the producers in most of them, to 
realize it. Probably at least twenty-five per cent 
(and possibly much more) of the failures in any one 
season are due to hasty and incompetent stage man- 
agement. Just how great a loss this means in dol- 
lars and cents we leave it to the more statistically 



364 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

minded to determine. It certainly means a great 
loss in pleasure and a serious handicap to the more 
noble forms of drama. Why the big producing 
firms do not select certain promising young men and 
train them up and try them out as stage managers is 
one of the mysteries of our theatre. 



THE TEACHING OF SHAKESPEARE 
IN THE SCHOOLS 

Spring igi6 

Shakespeare died 300 years ago without the slight- 
est consciousness that he had written textbooks for 
Phillips Academy and the New Rochelle High 
School. He passed from amid his daffodils and 
primroses — for in those last quiet years in the coun- 
try I am sure he had especially the spring blooms 
about his dwelling — in the knowledge and belief 
that he had written plays for the practical theatre. 
That they commanded a wide interest he was not 
unaware; probably he was not unaware that they 
deserved it! He had already seen them put into 
print. But he had no "message," as Shaw or Brieux 
has, and these quartos were, so to speak, souvenirs of 
a pleasant evening in the playhouse, or hints of a 
pleasant evening for those who were not present. 
Most assuredly they were not textbooks. 

And it would take a bold man to deny the possi- 
bility of a connection between the modern decline of 

365 



366 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

Shakespeare on the stage and the fact that his plays 
were never more generally in use as textbooks. 
More American children grow up today with a sup- 
posed knowledge of Shakespeare than ever before, 
and fewer ever see him acted — which simply means 
that fewer have any real knowledge of him. 

It is an object of the tercentenary celebration not 
only to honor Shakespeare, but to focus attention 
upon all phases of his works, and I personally be- 
lieve that no more useful result could possibly follow 
than a revaluation of Shakespearean study methods 
in our secondary schools, so complete in places as to 
be revolutionary. At present it is safe to say that 
the average high school makes Shakespeare a bore, 
and while it may teach enough routine of plot and 
smattering of philology to jam a child past the col- 
lege entrance board, it fails utterly to inspire dra- 
matic appreciation, to expand the imagination, to 
create affection. And the reason invariably is that 
Shakespeare's works are studied as textbooks, not as 
living dramatic performances spoken by living play- 
ers. Conditions are not so bad as they were a few 
years ago, to be sure. The dramatic renaissance in 
our colleges is carrying down better equipped teach- 
ers into the secondary schools. But there is still a 



THE TEACHING OF SHAKESPEARE 367 

vast deal to be done, and the present is an excellent 
opportunity for calling attention to it. 

Most readers, I fancy, have gone through much 
the same experience that I went through in my 
school days — and they were spent in a great and 
famous school, too. We boys sat on benches with 
our red-bound Rolfe's editions before us, and in a 
sleepy singsong some boy droned out a passage, and 
then the instructor asked him questions to see if he'd 
read the notes, and then another boy recited and was 
questioned on the notes, and then the instructor, if 
he were feeling particularly energetic that day, gave 
us a bit of a lecture on the beauty of the poetry or 
on the character of Rosalind, and we openly yawned, 
and waited for the bell, and when it sounded rushed 
with a glad stamping into the open air. By virtue 
of much repetition, we learned that the quality of 
mercy is not strained, and we could repeat the plot 
of "Macbeth" in order to get into Yale. After 
which, we prayed to be delivered from the Bard! 
From a considerable observation of secondary 
schools since that time I gather that this is still the 
way Shakespeare is "taught" in too many places. 

It is a crime, and doubly a crime now that we so 
pitifully need the right cultivation of dramatic 



368 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

imagination and poetic appreciation to counteract 
the stultifying banality of the movies. 

I am convinced that the first thing which should 
be thrown overboard in a preliminary teaching of 
Shakespeare to children of high school age is the 
notes. In their place should be substituted, by dia- 
gram, by pictures, and most of all, if it is a possible 
thing, by practical illustration, a clear image in the 
pupils' minds of the Elizabethan stage, of the actual 
conditions under which "Hamlet" or "Macbeth" or 
"The Merchant of Venice" first saw the light. This 
preliminary seems indispensable to me, for until the 
play to be studied is sensed in its practical relation 
to the theatre, until it is felt primarily as a living, 
acted story, it is ridiculous to expect children, or even 
untrained adults, to grasp its secondary significances. 
Moreover, through the dramatic sense lies the easiest 
and most natural approach to the child's interest; 
the method is pedagogically sound. 

If I were teaching Shakespeare in a high school 
— and, I may add, I have taught him to many boys 
and girls of high school age, lest it be thought I am 
speaking purely from theory — I should first of all 
(after my talk on the Elizabethan theatre and my 
display of pictures and diagrams) have the desk re- 
moved from the platform, or shoved far back for a 



THE TEACHING OF SHAKESPEARE 369 

"balcony." I should then group some of the class 
at the sides as well as in front, and with as much 
merriment and informality as possible lead the class 
to play the teacher's platform was Shakespeare's 
stage and they the London audience. Then, pick- 
ing boys and girls for the various parts, I should 
have them come up on this platform to read their 
roles, act by act. No doubt the players would be 
changed frequently if the class were a large one. 
Everybody must have a chance. 

No effort would be made, of course, to coach any 
pupils into acting, further than to keep them in the 
relative positions called for by the text, though a 
very definite effort would be made — and herein lies 
one of the finest opportunities of the Shakespearean 
teacher, and a neglected one — to coach each pupil 
to read his lines not only intelligently but rhythm- 
ically and with full voice and clean enunciation. 
Those who by nature threw themselves into acting 
would, of course, not be discouraged, but those who 
lacked the capacity or the self-assurance would not be 
made to feel that they were less useful or failing in 
their work. The main object to be achieved would 
be the creation in them all of a sense for the dramatic 
quality of the story, a realization of the dramatic 
drive and interest. 



370 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

It should be possible thus to cover at least one 
act, possibly two, at each recitation, and I should go 
through the entire play in this manner before a single 
word was said about the notes at the back of the 
book. I should make that particular play a living, 
vital tale to every child, as vital as the movies 
around the corner, before I turned to the notes at 
all. I should abolish most of the formality and 
discipline of the conventional classroom, and have 
a grand good time in the process. 

Then, and only then, should I turn back to the 
text and go through it as classroom work, demand- 
ing a knowledge of the notes, elucidating the simpler 
and most necessary problems of philology, and dis- 
cussing with (not at) the pupils the characters of 
Shylock or Hamlet or Rosalind. And even during 
this work, at every possible opportunity the teacher 
ought to make reference to this or that famous per- 
formance in the past, show pictures of Booth and 
Sothern and Marlowe, keep in every possible way 
the stage side of the play before the pupils' minds. 
It is only by bringing out the dramatic element that 
the growing mind can grasp Shakespeare in his true 
significance and interest. It is only by a practical 
demonstration of the platform stage that the school 
child can acquire the capacity for historic projec- 



THE TEACHING OF SHAKESPEARE 371 

tion, the ability, that is, to view with comprehension 
in one century the works of a previous century, 
created for totally different conditions. And it is 
only by keeping Shakespeare a living, spoken thing, 
not a dry, printed text, that a love can be fostered 
for verbal beauty on the stage of the present, for the 
chiming of the spoken word, the strut and sweep of 
poetic passion. 

By following some such method of teaching as 
this I think nearly as many plays can be got through 
with in a year as by the old methods, and I am very 
sure if only half as many are covered, twice as much 
will actually be accomplished. I have certainly 
demonstrated to my own satisfaction, by a consider- 
able series of experiments, not only that the average 
mixed class of small-town high school children can 
be made to enjoy Shakespeare by this method, but 
that they will thereafter voluntarily and delightedly 
come through snow and slush of an evening to read, 
in the same way, the plays of Sheridan, Goldsmith, 
Lady Gregory, even G. B. Shaw. I have had a 
dozen boys and girls howling joyously over "You 
Never Can Tell" in my library, and I have the next 
week had them all around the piano singing "Pa- 
tience" and "The Mikado." They didn't ask to 
"rag" the music, either! After all, that is a better 



372 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

gauge of education than a high percentage in the 
college entrance tests. We do not study to pass 
examinations, but to expand our capacities for useful 
living and rational enjoyment. Any pupil who gets 
a mark of 100 per cent, in Shakespeare, but there- 
after hates the plays, has not "passed" brilliantly; 
he has dismally failed — or, rather, his teacher has. 
Coincident with some such method as this for 
teaching Shakespeare in many cases might very well 
be an actual performance of one of his plays (in 
whole or in part) by the pupils. It is impossible to 
say how many amateur productions are made by 
public and private secondary schools in America 
during a year, but the total is undoubtedly up in the 
thousands. In a great many instances, the pupils 
are allowed to pick their own play without any help- 
ful suggestions, and naturally wanting something 
"snappy" or amusing, they pick some cheap farce 
and waste their time over the most direful rubbish. 
Quite aside from the fact that any self-respecting 
Principal ought to be ashamed to let his school be 
represented by anything short of the best standards, 
the school is losing thereby an excellent chance to 
combine its educational functions with the spon- 
taneous impulses of the children. If they have been 
properly taught, the pupils themselves will know 



THE TEACHING OF SHAKESPEARE 373 

that Shakespeare wrote quite as jovial farce as any- 
body else, and that one of his plays offers them the 
fullest opportunities for showing off the capacities 
of everybody in the class. And to the teacher it 
means the culmination of her efforts to vitalize the 
text. 

It is safe to say that a school performance of 
Shakespeare should be made either on a platform 
stage, as nearly Elizabethan as the resources permit, 
or else out of doors. If the former method is 
chosen, both pupils and public should be impressed 
with the fact that the school is trying to do some- 
thing historical, to show Shakespeare in an approxi- 
mation of his original dress. It is perfectly proper 
for a school production to have a touch of the edu- 
cational about it, especially as in that way the ter- 
rible obstacle of scenery is overcome. The platform 
stage is easily made, requires no curtain, has the 
charm of novelty, and centres the attention on the 
spoken word. It can be appropriately dressed at 
the rear, also, with cloth hangings, rugs, tapestries, 
to relieve its bareness and give it color. The New 
Theatre's production of "A Winter's Tale" proved 
that. 

So far as practicable, the costumes should be made 
by the children themselves, and at the least possible 



374 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

cost. It should be a matter of pride to make a 
pretty dress out of cheesecloth for sixty-five cents, 
rather than to present a sumptuous appearance in 
velvet and gold. Every possible phase of the school 
curriculum — drawing, music, sewing, manual train- 
ing — should be applied to the preparation of the 
stage, the costumes, the play, not only to reduce ex- 
penses, but far more to connect the school work with 
reality, to correlate it, to give every pupil a useful 
part to play. Happily, there are already many 
high schools where this is realized, and even one or 
two where the pupils have actually assisted in build- 
ing a permanent school theatre. 

The same methods hold true, of course, for the 
out-of-door performance, which in many sections of 
the country is the more desirable. Not only is the 
out-of-door performance, under good conditions, apt 
to be more illusive, especially if given at night, but 
it has a peculiar beauty of its own, and it permits 
the utilization of more players and the arrangement 
of pretty dances. 

An entire school can contribute. I have in mind 
at this moment a performance of "A Midsummer 
Night's Dream" given by a little West Virginia high 
school at the instigation of the English teacher, a 
graduate of Radcliffe College, where she had felt 



THE TEACHING OF SHAKESPEARE 375 

the inspiration of the new dramatic renaissance. 
The boys cut young firs on the mountain and made 
a stage in a corner of the school yard, screening out 
unsightly objects beyond and creating masked wings 
and entrances. The girls made all the costumes. 
Their natural love of dancing was utilized to the 
full. Everybody contributed something, even the 
grade children. And on a June day all the popula- 
tion of the little town gathered to watch the play, 
seeing and hearing something far different from any- 
thing the movies provide. The sixteenth century 
touched hands with the twentieth across the years in 
this mountain village, and the thrill of eternal love- 
liness awoke. What a splendid thing for a school 
to do! That is the real way to teach Shake- 
speare. 

While the superior educational advantages of 
doing a thing yourself instead of having it done for 
you can never be overestimated, at the same time 
we should never lose sight of the stimulus of pro- 
fessional example and the standard such example 
sets. In the study of Shakespeare there is as yet 
almost no official recognition of the aid the profes- 
sional theatre could, and should, give to the public 
schools. Some form of co-operation between the 
two should be brought about, and doubtless will be 



376 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

as time goes on and our theatre is better adapted to 
such service. 

There is probably hardly a reader of this article 
who does not treasure among his most precious mem- 
ories certain trips to the playhouse when he was of 
school age. In my own case, I know, the perform- 
ances of Dickens dramatizations by the old Boston 
Museum Stock Company had more to do with my 
development of a love for reading and appreciation 
of character portrayal than anything else. The 
other day a man told me of a boys' club he organized 
some years ago, outside of Boston. Miss Maude 
Adams sent him twenty seats to "Peter Pan," and 
he took the whole club. Ten years later, talking 
with those same boys, it was that trip to Boston to 
see "Peter Pan" which every one of them most viv- 
idly remembered and talked about. Moreover, 
many of them had been to see Miss Adams's revival 
of the play, and one and all were still her ardent 
champions. Just so those of us who saw Julia Mar- 
lowe's Juliet when we were schoolboys have never 
forgotten it, but treasure in our hearts a fragrant 
memory, like a precious standard of loveliness and 
poetry. 

But how is this co-operation between school and 
stage to come about? the reader asks. Especially 



THE TEACHING OF SHAKESPEARE 377 

how is it to come about in the small towns where 
there are no theatres'? 

Very often, of course, for the small towns, the 
thing is impossible, making the more need for such 
amateur productions as that in West Virginia, de- 
scribed above. But in the larger towns, and in the 
smaller places adjacent to them, a little co-operation 
between theatre managers and school authorities 
could in a surprisingly large number of cases bring 
about an opportunity for the high school pupils to 
see Shakespeare professionally performed. Not 
only are there several companies touring the country 
who are equipped to give Shakespeare out of doors, 
but anything like a concerted demand for winter 
performances would keep these companies as per- 
manent organizations during the year. Moreover, 
even today, though the average stock company has 
sunk to a rather low level of accomplishment, the 
right encouragement from the school and municipal 
authorities would find most of the directors ready 
to respond with occasional matinees. 

Certainly, nothing could be better for the theatre 
than the creation of a sentiment in the community 
that it is not only a luxury, a means of idle amuse- 
ment, but also a factor in the educational life of the 
town, an adjunct of the schools. Let your rising 



378 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

generation of school children come to regard the 
playhouse in their town as a fascinating part of their 
school study, and you have made vastly easier for 
the next generation the task which faces us — the 
task of freeing the American theatre from the bond- 
age of Broadway, of revitalizing it and localizing 
it in each separate community. One of the ways to 
accomplish this end, and one of the surest ways, is 
to make the theatre contributory to our prized na- 
tional institution, the public schools. The advan- 
tage will be mutual. 



THE VEXED QUESTION OF 
PERSONALITY 

igi6 

No branch of art is so much discussed, in print 
and in conversation, as the art of acting, and none, 
perhaps, is so little understood. Those, presum- 
ably, who know the most about it, the actors, either 
give out silly utterances to Sunday newspaper inter- 
viewers, or else their words are embalmed in such 
papers as William Gillette's "Illusion of the First 
Time in Acting," or Coquelin's "Art and the Actor," 
or Talma's "Reflections on Acting," which are, in 
this country at least, unknown to the general public, 
and some of them only available in such special 
editions as those published by the Columbia Dra- 
matic Museum. Even those ardent culture seekers, 
the American club women, who study earnestly 
in preparation for a symphony, would never dream 
of reading Coquelin's essay before going to see Billie 
Burke or Maude Adams. However, that doesn't 
in the least deter them from expressing an opinion, 

379 



380 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

ex cathedra, regarding the merit of the performance. 
Unfortunately, the average newspaper criticism is 
in little better state. The critic usually devotes 
nine-tenths of his space to the play, dismissing the 
players sometimes with that one awful word, "ade- 
quate," and but seldom writing definitely and 
illuminatingly of the actor's art. One reason for 
this is, of course, that so few dramatic critics remain 
at their posts long enough to become competent to 
discuss acting. Talma says it requires twenty years 
to learn how to act. We are disposed to think it 
requires hardly less time to learn how to analyze act- 
ing critically. The present writer has been a critic 
for nearly fifteen years, and, if he may make a con- 
fession, always attends a Shakespearean performance 
with a sinking heart, because he has not seen enough 
different impersonations of these great characters to 
give him an adequate basis of comparison. How 
can one write adequately of Forbes-Robertson's 
Hamlet, for example, who never saw Booth's? 
Each may have been an unique creation, but it is 
by what one actor can find in a part which another 
does not find that the critic learns judgment. 

One of the commonest confusions in the appreci- 
ation of acting is that created by the thing called 
Personality. Nobody disputes that personality 



QUESTION OF PERSONALITY 381 

plays an enormous part in the popular success of 
an actor or actress, sometimes the most important 
part. But to differentiate between the actor with 
a strong personality who is also an artist, and one 
who is not an artist, frequently overtaxes the lay 
critic; while the dispute has never ceased to rage 
whether the use of a strong personality is "legiti- 
mate" or not. You can hear it every day. Only 
recently every paper in London has been writing 
about the charming "personality" of the American 
actress, Doris Keane, who is playing "Romance? in 
that capital, to the immense delight of the soldiers 
home on leave. They also add, almost invariably 
in another sentence, that she can act. To very few 
writers does it seem to occur that the revelation of 
this personality in the theatre may be itself the most 
artful feature of her performance. 

What is the end and aim of acting? It is not 
to repeat the author's lines. It is not to give pro- 
pulsion to the events of the author's story. It is to 
bring to life the author's characters. Now, in the 
actual world, the character does not exist devoid of 
personality — a quality we need hardly try to define, 
since it eludes definition, but is perfectly well recog- 
nized by everybody. The most interesting people 
are those with the most interesting personalities. A 



382 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

colorless person we say has little personality. Theo- 
dore Roosevelt bristles with it, however tired some 
of us get with his brand. Therefore, on the stage, 
the most interesting characters in the play are bound 
to be those for whom the author has imagined the 
most vivid and interesting personalities. But the 
grim fact confronts the actor about to assume one 
of these roles that you cannot create personality by 
putting on a wig, reciting speeches, carrying a cane, 
aping certain gestures, donning a hoop skirt. In 
fact, you cannot create personality at all. You can 
train and direct it, you can even develop it, perhaps, 
as so many men unconsciously do who give their 
lives to a certain occupation; we all know doctors 
who, from much association with sickness, have de- 
veloped a natural gentleness till it shines from their 
faces and is the best medicine they administer ! But 
God and his grandparents gave the actor, as well as 
every other man, what potential personality he may 
possess, and it is this personality of his own which 
he has got to use in creating a live stage character. 
If he succeeds in giving you, in the audience, a com- 
plete illusion of being that stage personage, it may, 
of course, be a happy accident, merely — i.e. his own 
personality may be exactly that of the stage part. 
Such an occurrence is not uncommon. But, much 



QUESTION OF PERSONALITY 383 

more often, it means that the player has used his 
personality as one of the best weapons of his art, 
and is showing you, did you but know it, a very 
fine piece of craftsmanship. He is fusing his per- 
sonality with that of the character, and by his own 
native resources vitalizing the dramatist's con- 
ception. 

It is perfectly true, as the London papers all re- 
marked, that Doris Keane has a pronounced person- 
ality. It was just as pronounced in the second part 
she played, years ago, the seduced maiden in Henry 
Arthur Jones' drama, "The Hypocrites," the part 
which made her known to the public. But this part 
was totally different from her role in "Romance." 
She was unmistakably Doris Keane in both imper- 
sonations — and she was as unmistakably the charac- 
ters in the two plays. How shall we explain the 
paradox? Billie Burke would have been Billie 
Burke in both plays, because she cannot act. Miss 
Keane, no less individual, contrives to give the illu- 
sion of two contrasted women. 

Well, that is one of the mysteries of the actor's 
art, which even so skilled a player as George Arliss 
throws too little light upon, in his introduction to 
William Gillette's "Illusion of the First Time of 
Acting." He does suggest that the mysterious thing 



384 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

we call personality is made up, say, of a hundred 
elements. Now it may well be that only ten of these 
elements are needed to assume the guise of a charac- 
ter. The other ninety remain in the actor as a 
reserve force, to be drawn upon to give charm and 
vitality to his impersonation. Only, alas! Mr. Ar- 
liss doesn't tell us how the drawing is accomplished. 
Perhaps it is too much a matter of instinct to de- 
scribe. Miss Keane, let us say, has dark, magnetic 
eyes, a curious mouth that is extremely mobile and 
can suggest either impish glee or profound sorrow 
very easily (Elsie Ferguson is another actress with 
a peculiarly expressive mouth), and a general at- 
tractiveness of face and figure which arrests atten- 
tion. Having arrested our attention, we soon real- 
ize other features of her personality, notably her 
humor, not without its capacity for a sarcastic edge, 
her sensitiveness to impressions, her alert mind. 
We sense her as rather an unusual person. Now, to 
play her role of the seduced maiden in "The Hypo- 
crites," she needed only to color her dark eyes a 
little darker with moumfulness, maintain the droop 
to her mouth, and by her sensitiveness to the atmos- 
phere of the part keep properly in the picture — and 
she had created the illusion of character by using 
only a fraction of her natural weapons. The rest 



QUESTION OF PERSONALITY 385 

remained to her in reserve, subtly to give interest 
and vitality to her impersonation. 

In "Romance" she drew much more fully on her 
natural resources, especially on her humor, her ca- 
priciousness, the sense of strangeness in her person- 
ality. But even in "Romance" she did not tap the 
capacity for sarcasm and only partially the sugges- 
tion of mental alertness which we could always feel 
behind her stage characters if she chose to let us, 
inherent in the actress herself. It is because her per- 
sonality is so rich, and because she has demonstrated 
the technical expertness to utilize those sides of it 
properly adapted to each character she plays, that 
we have faith in her future impersonations. 

Many years ago Mrs. Fiske, an actress with the 
most striking and electric personality now visible on 
our stage, gave a heart-breaking performance of 
"Tess of the D'Urbervilles," which was greatly ad- 
mired by the public, but which was, none the less, 
widely attacked by the critics, lay as well as profes- 
sional, because "it wasn't Thomas Hardy's Tess." 
Her personality, the critics said, was not suited to 
Hardy's Tess. It certainly was not. Nobody knew 
that better than the actress herself. If she hadn't 
known it, and also known exactly what her person- 
ality was suited for, she would have tried to give 



386 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

an imitation of Hardy's Tess, and made a miserable 
mess of it. Tess of the novel was unquestionably 
bovine, and Mrs. Fiske is about as bovine as a thistle- 
down in a northwest gale. Tess had a certain 
peasant stupidity. Mrs. Fiske's personality suggests 
mental alertness to such a degree that she can- 
not possibly simulate stupidity convincingly. Her 
problem, then, was to make the Tess of the play the 
kind of a woman she could plausibly impersonate, 
so that her personality could give life to the part. 
She had every right to do this — or else acting is 
not an art at all, but a process of mechanical repro- 
duction, like a phonograph. For peasant stupidity 
she substituted innocence and wistful trustfulness; 
for the bovine quality she substituted fragility, 
nervous sensitiveness; for the passionate dumbness 
of Tess's longings, she substituted a taut-wire emo- 
tionalism. 

Thus, in the same set of circumstances, the same 
tragic workings of Fate were plausibly brought 
about, the same terrible lesson was read. Her Tess 
was no less a human creature in the fell clutch of 
circumstance than Hardy's maiden. Here was an 
almost perfect example of an actor's realization that 
he cannot get away from his own personality, and 
that to succeed greatly in the theatre he must by 



QUESTION OF PERSONALITY 387 

every device of art use his personality to give life and 
illusion to his role. 

Mrs. Fiske's Tess was not so satisfactory a per- 
formance as her Becky Sharp, however, because 
Becky's personality and hers have two things so won- 
derfully in common — an ironic sense of humor 
(which had to be suppressed entirely in Tess), and 
the dynamic magnetism of a sleepless will. Mrs. 
Fiske all her life has been a fighter. She fought the 
Theatrical Syndicate singlehanded after everybody 
else had knuckled under. All her life she has been 
a worker, the first at rehearsals, the last to leave. 
Indeed, resolution, will power, bottled energy, ra- 
diate from her little person when she chooses to re- 
lease them, and ring in her bitten tones. Therefore 
with no effort she took Becky to her bosom. And, 
by the same token, she ought by rights to be the 
great Lady Macbeth of our generation. 

To go back a little, all the evidence of his con- 
temporaries and of those who still remember him, 
points to the fact that Booth's Hamlet, perhaps the 
greatest achievement of the American theatre, was 
a happy wedding of technical skill and a personality 
marvelously akin to the personality generally asso- 
ciated with the poet's Prince. Booth played other 
parts well, though none so well. But there were 



388 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

parts he played badly — and they were the ones 
which he could not bend to his personality. His 
great eminence, his Hamlet, was a work of genius — 
but the genius was only in part artful. It was Na- 
ture which put him on the ultimate pedestal. And, 
in our day, how much of the charm of Forbes-Rob- 
ertson's Hamlet comes from his exquisite elocution, 
his finished rhythm of performance, his intelligent 
insight into character, and how much from that rare 
and princely bearing with which Nature has endowed 
him, from the splendid gentlemanliness of his per- 
sonality'? To say that an actor who has such a gift 
is less of an artist because he uses it is to say that 
Melba is less of an artist than the village soprano 
because she had the most glorious voice of her gen- 
eration. 

He would be an ungracious and boorish critic in- 
deed who said that Maude Adams, so universally be- 
loved for two decades on our stage, did not deserve 
the rewards she has won, because she received them 
as a tribute to her personality rather than her art. 
Indeed, one may almost say that her personality is 
her art. A personality so winsome and lovely as hers 
is itself a work of genius — be it the Lord's or not. 
Miss Adams, of course, knows how to act, up to a 
certain point. But her range is limited. She 



QUESTION OF PERSONALITY 389 

speaks very badly, her attempts at Shakespeare were 
almost pathetic, and she mispronounces the English 
language atrociously. Even in the plays of her fa- 
vorite Barrie, she sometimes curiously fails to grasp 
a character, as in the earlier acts of "What Every 
Woman Knows." The first act of "The Legend of 
Leonora" called for a technical virtuosity quite be- 
yond her range. As Juliet, many years ago, she was 
pitifully feeble in emotional suggestion — the grand 
passions are beyond her powers. Yet, in "The Lit- 
tle Minister," a play almost twenty years old, she 
packed the Empire Theatre all last winter, and 
nobody would want to see any other actress play 
"Peter Pan." As Barrie is called "whimsical," 
Miss Adams is most often called "elfin." There is 
something in her personality everybody recognizes, 
everybody loves, and when she finds a part to which 
she can give illusion by this personality of hers — an 
elfin part, as it were, with a sweet dash of tenderness 
and womanly humor and wistfulness now and then 
— she is incomparable. She makes her slender tech- 
nical resources go as far as they can, and the Maude 
Adams God made does the rest. 

How much personality limits even the most tech- 
nically expert of players is well illustrated by the 
case of Sarah Bernhardt. She knew every trick of 



39Q PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

the actor's art; so marvelous was her command of 
them, indeed, that she could play the boyish hero of 
"L'Aiglon" when she was over sixty, and now, a 
feeble old woman on a wooden leg, she can stand 
leaning on a table and evoke with her voice alone 
the tragic passions. Yet, as William Winter once 
remarked with rare penetration, in all her impersona- 
tions of women she was always the woman being 
loved, never the woman loving. Illusion always 
broke down at that point, failed of completeness. 
It was a fatal defect of her personality. 

Again, both Julia Marlowe and Margaret Anglin 
have played Cleopatra, and the present writer saw 
both performances. Neither woman could create the 
illusion, for all her skill. A certain inescapable 
ladylikeness, the scent of the Anglo-Saxon lily, clung 
'round them still. Miss Anglin especially was a 
splendid Katherine in "The Taming of the Shrew." 
There was nothing in her personality to contradict 
tremendous temper and rebellious spirit. Indeed, 
her personality suggests always a woman of strong 
spirit, averse to leading strings. But as you and I 
know Egypt's queen, a certain exoticness is de- 
manded, and neither Miss Marlowe nor Miss Anglin 
could find in her own personality the right qualities 
to call to her aid. Nazimova, that "tiger cat in the 



QUESTION OF PERSONALITY 391 

leash of art," might play it, so far as personality 
goes. Then there would be no clash between player 
and part. On the other hand, can you fancy Naz- 
imova as Viola"? If it is right for actors to avoid 
parts for which their personalities are unsuited — 
and common sense tells us that it is — it is equally 
right for them to make the most of their personalities 
in parts they are suited for. 

The reader can easily call to mind for himself a 
list of players with strong personalities, and can re- 
flect on what use they have made of them — whether 
a crude, artless use, such as Billie Burke makes and 
Ethel Barrymore is this season making in "Our Mrs. 
McChesney" (more's the pity), or a vital, artful use, 
such as that fine actor Ernest Lawford always makes, 
or Ferdinand Gottschalk, or George Arliss. Fer- 
dinand Gottschalk, an extremely individual and ec- 
centric little comedian, who couldn't disguise himself 
if he tried, yet played the silly ass in "The Climbers" 
to the life, and in "The Truth" played the father 
in such a way that through the foppishness and weak- 
ness and vanity of the old man shone the remnants of 
a gentleman, and gave the whole play its meaning. 
Gottschalk, an artist and a gentleman, had only to 
tap his personality a little deeper, to draw on those 
reserve forces Arliss speaks of, and the second char- 



392 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

acter came to life, though almost in the exterior, su- 
perficial image of the first. That is personality gov- 
erned and utilized by art. 

O. P. Heggie, an excellent English actor who 
came to us as Androcles in the Granville Barker pro- 
duction of "Androcles and the Lion," is this spring 
playing the old clerk, Cokeson, in Galsworthy's "Jus- 
tice." The two parts are totally unlike, save in one 
respect. Both Androcles and Cokeson should com- 
mand our loving, if smiling, sympathy, they should 
have a certain quality of gentleness about them. 
And Heggie's own personality, as it appears on the 
stage, is remarkable for just this winning quality. 
You could never for an instant confuse one charac- 
ter with the other as he plays them, but neither could 
you fail, if you had seen Heggie as Androcles, to rec- 
ognize him as Cokeson. He has obediently carried 
out the author's intention, but he has artfully em- 
ployed his own personality to accomplish the final 
bringing to life of the character. 

It is one of the creeds of modern criticism that all 
art is, in the final analysis, but an expression of 
personality, of the artist's personality, of his vision 
of life. Even the drama, the most objective of the 
arts, the one in which the writer has least to say in 
his own person, cannot escape the law. Though 



QUESTION OF PERSONALITY 393 

Aristotle called the drama an imitation, we see today 
behind the dramas of Aeschylus and Euripides the 
two vivid and contrasting personalities of the poets, 
their different visions of life. Their plays are not 
imitations but revelations. Behind "Justice" and 
"Peter Pan" and "Major Barbara" we feel the three 
personalities of Galsworthy, Barrie and Shaw, and 
if we had never heard a word of gossip about these 
men, nor seen a picture of them, nor read anything 
else they had written, we would yet know them for 
what they are. There is, indeed, something almost 
terrible to the artist when he realizes the self-reve- 
lation he makes to the world when he wields a brush 
or blots white paper with black ink. 

And shall we deny to the actor and the interpreta- 
tive musician the name of artist^ Whether we wish 
to or not, I fear it cannot be done. Personally, if the 
actor is not an artist but a mere recording machine, I 
would wish never to write another line about acting. 
And if the public thought the interpretative musi- 
cians were not artists — that Sembrich and Kreisler 
and Paderewski and Muck are but recording instru- 
ments, phonographs on legs — I am very sure the 
concert halls would be deserted. The instinct of the 
public is right, of course, as it always is in the long 
run. 



394 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

But if the actor and the singer or violinist are ar- 
tists, if they contribute a creative act by their per- 
formance, then what they do, too, in the last analysis, 
must be to reveal their personalities, their visions of 
the world. They, too, cannot escape the self-reve- 
lation. When Sembrich sings Schumann's Bride 
Songs as no one but she can sing them, she contrib- 
utes the revelation of her own womanliness. When 
the Kneisels play a Beethoven sonata they contribute 
the revelation of their leader's love of form and fine 
reverence for beauty. When any actor gives a splen- 
did performance of an interesting character, from 
Hamlet to the latest hero of the current stage, he 
adds something to the author's conception, he con- 
tributes the vitality and the interest of his own per- 
sonality, not merely in exterior aspect (he may con- 
ceivably quite disguise that), but in far subtler ways. 
So Booth and Forbes-Robertson both made Hamlet 
live again, and without violence to Shakespeare — 
because they were artists, intent on the interpretation 
of a character; yet each contributed something rare 
and precious and unique, which perished when he 
ceased to act. That something was his own per- 
sonality, his vision, the thing he himself was as a 
man. If this were not so, and if the actors did not 
know it were so, it is inconceivable that anybody 



QUESTION OF PERSONALITY 395 

with an ounce of brains would ever go on the stage, 
or survive the debasing mechanism more than six 
months if he did. And if this were not so, it would 
not be true — as it unquestionably is true — that the 
finest performances come from the players who can 
add to the proper technical equipment the most va- 
ried, interesting, profound and admirable person- 
alities. 






THE LESSON OF THE WASHINGTON 
SQUARE PLAYERS 

igi6 

This is the story of the Washington Square Play- 
ers and their experiment at the little Bandbox The- 
atre in New York. It is told here because it illus- 
trates better than any other experiment yet tried in 
the American theatre the vitalizing influence of the 
amateur spirit, and points the way toward possible 
provincial theatres in various sections of the land, 
conducted not from Broadway but by local artists, 
and democratically serving the local community. 
Its success is the success of youth, enthusiasm, ideals, 
intelligence — and democracy. And the greatest of 
these is democracy. You cannot have a successful, 
i.e. a vital theatre, or any other vital art expression, 
just because a few rich people decide to have it. 
You cannot superimpose art, or morals, or anything 
else, from above. Your theatre must grow from the 
desires of the workers in the theatre, and the audi- 
ences in the theatre. That is the way the Washing- 

396 



WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYERS 397 

ton Square Players began. They started in poverty, 
and they are comparatively poor yet. We hope 
they always will be. Then the workers in their 
theatre will always be its lovers. We don't want 
them to work for nothing; but better for nothing 
than for great riches. 

It was during the winter of 1914-15 that a group 
of young people, mostly living in the region around 
old Washington Square in New York, conceived the 
idea, or at least crystallized the idea, of starting a 
theatre of their own. Very few of them had ever 
acted, except as amateurs. Several of them, how- 
ever, had written plays and were filled with a per- 
fectly natural desire to see these plays on a stage. 
Others were artists who viewed the Broadway the- 
atres with some contempt, perhaps, because of the 
old-fashioned settings and costumes they saw there. 
Still others were young men who had ambitions to 
stage plays. Some of these men and women were 
Hebrews, some belonged to the much-written-about 
Greenwich Village Bohemian crowd, some, like Sam- 
uel Eliot, Jr., grandson of the president-emeritus of 
Harvard, were positively Puritanic in antecedents. 
But one thing they had in common — a love of and 
enthusiasm for the theatre. No, there was another 
thing — none of them seems to have had any capital. 



398 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

However, they were young, and full of faith enough 
not to let that fact bother them. 

Calling themselves the Washington Square Play- 
ers, they found the chance to rent a small theatre 
three miles from Washington Square, far off the 
beaten track, on East 57th Street beyond Third 
Avenue. This theatre had been erected for use by 
professional actors, whose venture had speedily 
failed; and it could be rented cheaply. So the 
Washington Square Players moved in. They had 
chosen as their head director a young man named 
Edward Goodman. They had selected three one- 
act plays and a pantomime for their opening bill, 
painted some scenery and designed some costumes, 
all without any relation to the way plays are chosen 
or scenery painted on Broadway; and they had 
drilled a group of players to act these pieces as well 
as they could, which, to confess the truth, wasn't 
very well. 

They announced their first performance for Feb- 
ruary 19, 1915, and said they would give but two 
performances a week, on Friday and Saturday eve- 
nings. They did not advertise in the newspapers — 
not having enough money. And they did not pay 
their actors anything, doubtless for the same reason. 
All seats were to be fifty cents each, none higher. 



WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYERS 399 

The first performance came off on schedule, and 
there were plenty of friends on hand to fill the 
theatre. The newspaper critics journeyed over to 
the wilds east of Third Avenue also, curious to see 
what was going to happen, but probably not very 
hopeful. Your average critic has learned by bitter 
experience the futility of hope. 

But the critics had a shock. Two of the three 
one-act plays presented were original works, "Li- 
censed," by Basil Lawrence, the story of an erring 
girl and a pastor who took pity on her; and "Eugen- 
ically Speaking," by Edward Goodman, the director, 
an extremely racy satire on eugenics, done with an 
engaging frankness which made it quite different 
from the professional attempts at salaciousness made 
occasionally over on Broadway. The third play was 
Maeterlinck's haunting little study of death and 
stillness, "Interior," very imaginatively and effec- 
tively staged at a cost of $35.00. The bill ended 
with a pantomime called "Another Interior," the 
stage representing the interior of the human stomach, 
the hero being Gastric Juice, and the villains the 
various courses consumed at a dinner. Brave Gas- 
tric overthrew them one by one, though with 
failing strength, till at last he fell a victim to a 
particularly vividly colored cordial. 



400 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

On the whole, the acting was amateur. But the 
plays themselves were all vital, full of meaning, or 
full of racy fun, and the settings were unusual and 
arresting. The critics went away delighted. Here 
was something fresh and new and different! The 
next night the theatre was again sold out. And it 
was sold out for every succeeding performance, 
though a third performance a week was soon added. 

On March 26th the second bill was staged. The 
chief feature was Leonid Andreyev's satire, "Love of 
One's Neighbor," translated from the Russian, and 
the players were not quite up to the demands. 
They did better with "Moon Down," a sketch of two 
girls in a hall bedroom, by John Reed, "My Lady's 
Honor," by Murdock Pemberton, and "Two Blind 
Beggars and One Less Blind," by Philip Moeller, 
one of the producing staff of the theatre. They did 
better still with a pretty pantomime, cleverly staged 
in black and white, called "The Shepherd in the 
Distance." 

The third bill was disclosed on May 7th, and in- 
cluded Maeterlinck's youthful and amusing satire, 
"The Miracle of St. Anthony," "April," a play of 
tenement house life by Rose Pastor Stokes, "For- 
bidden Fruit," a French amorous trifle adapted from 
Octave Feuillet, and, finally, "Saviors," a sketch 



WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYERS 401 

written by Edward Goodman, of a mother and son 
and their attitude toward the son's desire to marry 
his mistress. 

The season closed on Decoration Day, but not 
before one new production had been made, a trans- 
lation of Tchekov's "The Bear." This play, to- 
gether with the three most popular plays on the pre- 
ceding bills — "Eugenically Speaking," "Interior" 
and "The Shepherd in the Distance" — made up the 
fourth bill for the final performances. 

In the first season, then, from February 19th to 
May 30th, 1915, the Washington Square Players 
had given forty-three performances of fourteen one- 
act plays and pantomimes, all but five of these being 
original native work. Two of the foreign plays 
were by Maeterlinck, two from the Russian and one 
from the French. All of them had been mounted 
simply but for the most part effectively and in the 
new manner. The chief weakness lay in the acting, 
yet the plays had sufficient vitality, the whole experi- 
ment sufficient zest and novelty, to attract patron- 
age, and to encourage the Players to reengage the 
Bandbox Theatre for another year. 

Their second season began on October 4th, 1915. 
During the summer the company had been somewhat 
augmented, with the most promising actors of the 



402 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

spring as a nucleus. There were, then, in October, 
about twenty-five men and women, almost without 
exception young, forming the active players. The 
producers, stage hands, even the treasurer of the 
theatre, were called in for mob scenes, and "extra 
people." All told perhaps, counting the scene paint- 
ers, costume designers, business managers and pro- 
ducers the Washington Square Players numbered 
now about fifty. For the second season, the price 
of seats in a large portion of the house was raised to 
one dollar, to enable the payment of salaries to the 
leading actors and workers, for it was determined to 
give six performances a week, and the regular per- 
formers could not afford to donate so much of their 
time. In other words, the theatre determined to-be- 
come self- supporting. A few professional players 
were also secured, including Lydia Lopoukova, now 
with the Russian Ballet, and Frank Conroy, for- 
merly with Benson's company in England. 

The first bill, acted on October 4th, did not 
disclose any great advance in acting ability, how- 
ever, though the acquisition of Mr. Conroy was a 
help. But it did disclose one play of unusual qual- 
ity, "Helena's Husband," by Philip Moeller, a sa- 
tiric burlesque on Helen of Troy which kept the 
audience in gales of merriment, and which has since 



WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYERS 403 

been played in other theatres through the country. 
The other plays on the program (all of one act, as 
before) were 'Tire and Water," by Hervey White, 
a war sketch showing how French and German sol- 
diers, between the lines, may be very good friends, 
"The An tick," by Percy Mackaye, and "Night of 
Snow," translated from the Italian of Roberto 
Bracco. This last play, after two weeks, was re- 
placed by a revival of "Interior." Business started 
off briskly, and remained good for a couple of weeks. 
Then it began to fall off. 

The second bill for the season was produced on 
November 8th, and was called "a program of Com- 
parative Comedy." It included Schnitzler's clever 
play, "Literature," (not very well acted), Bracco's 
"Honorable Lover," de Musset's "Whims" (very 
inadequately acted, it being a work only skilled pro- 
fessional comedians could make interesting in Eng- 
lish), and finally, "Overtones," by Alice Gersten- 
berg of Chicago. This, the only native play on the 
bill, proved easily the most interesting, and was the 
best acted. Two women, shadowed by their real 
selves, or "overtones," meet and talk. They say one 
thing, their real selves say what they really would 
say if they spoke their minds. It was a clever 
sketch, and has since been acted at the Indianapolis 



404 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

Little Theatre and elsewhere, even, we believe, in 
vaudeville. 

It was not till the third bill was presented, on Jan- 
uary 10th, 1916, that the Players began to show the 
fruits of sustained practice in acting, and gave a 
performance which could compare with professional 
work. And at the same time, it should be noted, 
public patronage began to be more steady and full 
houses every night the rule. Ultimately, no experi- 
mental theatre can succeed until it develops a com- 
pany of players who can act. Enthusiasm, clever 
plays, picturesque and novel scenery, will never be 
a permanent substitute for acting. In the long run 
the theatre rests on the actors' art, a fact which can 
never be ignored by the founders of experiments. 

The third bill was most notable for a play by 
Lewis Beach, one of Professor Baker's graduates at 
Harvard, called "The Clod." It was adroitly 
acted, especially by Miss Josephine Meyer, from the 
start a most useful member of the company. This 
tense and thrilling little piece, perhaps the best one- 
act play written in America in some years, showed 
a mean border farm during our Civil War, at night. 
The old farmer and his wife were the only occupants. 
War had left them nothing, even robbing them of 
sleep. A Union despatch rider, closely pursued, 



WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYERS 405 

enters, and the action so befalls that the old woman 
hides him to avoid trouble with his two Confeder- 
ate pursuers. These pursuers demand food from 
her, which she dumbly gets, but when one of them 
insults her, calling her a clod and worse, something 
in her snaps and she shoots them both dead at point 
blank range with a shotgun. The Union soldier 
hails her as the savior of an army corps, as a patriot. 
But all it means to her is some broken crockery and 
the loss of a needed night's sleep. The play is rich 
in suspense, in theatrical excitement, and richer in 
spiritual suggestion. It is a little masterpiece. 

The other plays on this bill were "The Road 
House in Arden," a fantastic skit about Shakespeare 
and Lord Bacon, the scene occurring at a road house 
kept by Hamlet and his wife Cleopatra; a transla- 
tion of Wedekind's cynical sketch of the artistic tem- 
perament, "The Tenor" ; and, finally, a rather stupid 
and poorly performed pantomime called "The Red 
Cloak." 

The fourth bill, presented on March 20th, was 
marked by a still more noticeable improvement in 
acting, and a consequent increase in public patronage. 
Three plays were original works, and all three were 
performed with precision. The first was a thriller 
by Guy Bolton and Tom Carlton (the former being 



406 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

a playwright for the professional theatre), called 
"Children," in which a negro mother shoots her son 
dead rather than give him up to a lynching party. 
The second was an amusing satire on divorce, called 
"The Age of Reason," by Cecil Dorrian. Two 
little girls in knee length frocks and hair ribbons talk 
like the characters in a Wilde play, and finally put 
the about-to-be-divorced parents of one of them on 
trial. It is merry fooling, and not without some 
point. The third original play was "The Magical 
City," written in vers libre by Zoe Akins, and mount- 
ed in a setting of great beauty, quite worthy of such 
professional designers as Joseph Urban or Livingston 
Piatt. The scenery, however, left a more definite 
impression than the play, which seemed to be try- 
ing to capture the poetic glamor of Gotham and its 
wealth, the glamor which snares certain women and 
makes them the mistresses of the money kings. 
Somehow, realism seems the proper treatment for 
this theme. At any rate, "The Magical City" didn't 
persuade us that it isn't. But the production of the 
play was certainly an attempt at a different and more 
intense handling of a sordid Broadway story, and so 
needs no defense. The bill ended with a version 
of the old 15th century French farce, "Master Pierre 
Patelin," one of the earliest known examples of the 



WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYERS 407 

modern drama as it was emerging from the Middle 
Ages, and one of the best. Unfortunately, the 
Washington Square Players, instead of acting this 
piece in its integrity and preserving its historic fla- 
vor, cut it unmercifully and acted it in a kind of 
animated puppet style. The result was neither 
amusing nor educative. They would much better 
have left it alone. However, some errors in judg- 
ment must be allowed to everybody, especially to 
young folks and pioneers. 

On May 7th, 1916, the Players acted for the first 
time a long play, Maeterlinck's "Aglavaine and 
Selysette." This performance, however, was not 
repeated, as it was a special production for the sea- 
son subscribers and was not intended for the public. 
It need not concern us here, though it is only fair to 
state that the scenery was unusual in design and full 
of beauty and suggestion. 

The last bill of the season was presented on May 
22, and again a long play was chosen, Marian Fell's 
translation of Tchekhov's "The Sea Gull." This 
play was continued until June 1st, when the Players 
moved from the tiny Bandbox Theatre to the Com- 
edy Theatre near Broadway, and there presented a 
few of their most successful productions until the 
coming of hot weather. They have leased the Com- 



408 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

edy for the season of 1916-17, needing its ampler 
stage for their scenic experiments, and its ampler 
seating capacity for their revenue. 

The production of "The Sea Gull," it must be 
admitted, gave more practice to the players than 
pleasure to the audience. Frankly, it was too much 
for their still immature histrionic powers. The 
plays of Tchekhov are almost unknown on the 
American stage, and while we must applaud the 
courage of the Washington Square Players in at- 
tempting to remedy this lack, we cannot help feeling 
that no great rush to the Russian dramatist will fol- 
low. "The Sea Gull," to be sure, is lucidity itself 
by comparison with "The Cherry Garden," but by 
comparison with life as we know it in our native 
drama even "The Sea Gull" is a book sealed seven- 
fold. Not its sluggish back water of dramatic pro- 
gression, not even its pictures of alien society, per- 
plex us, but rather its Chinese puzzle of irrelevancies. 
No character in it can stick to one idea for more 
than two speeches, and no character in it has any 
will, unless poor Constantine may be said to have 
the will to die. Lack of will, lack of concentration 
— the two are really the same. Tchekhov, with un- 
canny felicity, makes an ironic nightmare of these 
negative traits in his countrymen. A Russian worn- 



WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYERS 409 

an once told me that "The Cherry Garden" is so in- 
tensely Russian that she herself could not understand 
it after she had lived eight years in America. "The 
Sea Gull" differs only in degree. We whose modern 
philosopher is William James, with his "Will to Be- 
lieve," and who still applaud Emerson's "Trust thy- 
self, every heart vibrates to that iron string," can 
have small comprehension of, or even stomach for, 
a play like "The Sea Gull." 

And to make it at all impressive, certainly, a very 
high grade of subtle acting is required, not in one or 
two parts, but in all. Tchekhov never hitched his 
wagon to a star ! It would be futile to analyze the 
performance given at the Bandbox. The play was 
too far beyond the powers of every one concerned. 
It is only necessary to point out that the abrupt 
transition, the shift from a strong emotion to an irrel- 
evancy, is possibly the most difficult technical feat 
in the actor's art. 

However, this failure of the Washington Square 
Players had no criminal element of low aim. At 
the worst, it merely proved that it takes longer to 
develop a company of competent actors out of a 
group of amateurs than we impatient Americans like 
to fancy. At best, it showed that the Players are 
ambitious, and wish to use their successes as stepping 



410 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

stones, dreading the commonplace more than failure, 
the easily popular more than the difficult and the 
exotic. The important thing is, not that they have 
failed at their first attempt at a four-act play, but 
that they have succeeded by many happy productions 
of one-act plays in persuading the public to come to 
see them in the longer work — in short, that they are 
now an accepted theatrical institution in New York, 
and are going on to wider effort. Beginning a year 
and a half ago as theatrical amateurs, this group of 
young enthusiasts have by talent and intelligence and 
cooperative enthusiasm stormed the forces of en- 
trenched professionalism, and given to New York its 
livest theatre. In a little over a year they have 
produced thirty short plays and pantomimes, nine- 
teen of them original native works, as well as two 
long plays; they have discovered in Philip Moeller 
and Lewis Beach, especially, writers of talent; they 
have given to young scenic artists opportunities for 
free experiment in stage pictures; and finally, they 
have demonstrated that persistent and intelligent 
practice of acting, even by amateurs, can develop a 
company of players the public will pay to see, though 
eighteen months will not make them finished actors. 
In short, they have at least begun to prove that what 









WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYERS 411 

the Abbey Theatre players did in Dublin is not im- 
possible in New York. 

And if it not impossible in New York it is not im- 
possible elsewhere in America. Curiously enough, 
the other spot on the map of the United States where 
the amateur spirit seems at present to be accomplish- 
ing the most in the theatre is North Dakota. Under 
the leadership of Frederick Henry Koch at the Uni- 
versity of North Dakota, pageants are being written 
by groups of people cooperatively, and acted and 
staged by the community. Professor Arvold of the 
North Dakota Agricultural College has devised a 
"Little Country Theatre" which serves the small 
communities, the people of these communities them- 
selves being the actors. The theatrical life of the 
countryside within the sphere of influence of these 
two universities is in some part spontaneously fos- 
tered by the people themselves, not supplied to them 
by outsiders. The amateur spirit is making a the- 
atre there, and some day it will no doubt make a 
drama. 

There have been numerous attempts in recent years 
to start so-called little theatres in various cities, such 
as Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago and Indianapolis. 
But in too many cases they have come to grief, and 



412 PLAYS AND PLAYERS 

upon inspection of the wreck the shrewd observer 
has discovered that they were not in reality a spon- 
taneous, democratic growth, but superimposed from 
above by some person or persons of wealth. A gen- 
uine demand for them did not exist, and a genuine 
enthusiasm for acting, writing, scene painting, stag- 
ing, was not sufficiently manifest in a large enough 
group of potential artists. Samuel Eliot, Jr., went 
out from the Bandbox Theatre to be director of the 
Indianapolis Little Theatre last autumn — and only 
with the utmost difficulty could secure casts for his 
productions; which simply meant that Indianapolis 
was not yet ready for such an experiment. It was 
superimposed, not spontaneously engendered by the 
enthusiasm and ambitions of the potential artists 
themselves. 

Probably very few cities or sections of the country 
are ready, as yet. Nevertheless, more and more peo- 
ple everywhere are beginning to see a light. More 
and more people are beginning to realize that the al- 
lied arts of the theatre can, and ought to be, a field for 
wholesome self-expression, not merely for exploita- 
tion by Broadway shop keepers. More and more 
people are realizing that each community has a right 
to its own theatre, its own dramatic idiom, and that 
the only way the community can ever achieve its 



WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYERS 413 

own theatre is to set out to develop it from the bot- 
tom, by its own efforts. More and more people are 
beginning to realize a truth some of us have been 
reiterating for years — that the future development 
of the American theatre must come through a renais- 
sance in the practical theatre itself of the amateur 
spirit, brought into the theatre by amateurs who, 
with proper and intelligent leadership, will remain 
to become self-respecting professional artists, or else 
by the existing professionals themselves breaking 
away from the present chains of exploitation. 

And because the Washington Square Players have 
demonstrated the entire possibility of such a renais- 
sance, right in the citadel of smug, money-grubbing 
exploitation, New York City, their success is the 
most important thing just now in the American 
theatre. 



THE END 



INDEX 



Abbey Theater (Dublin), 148 
Adams, Maude, 4, 5, 172, 173, 

i75, 177, 244, 376, 379, 388 
Addison, Joseph, 310 
Ade, George, 151, 251 
Admirable Crichton, The, 305, 306 
^schylus, 393 
Age of Reason, The, 406 
Aglavaine and Selysette, 407 
Aiglon, L', 390 
Akins, Zoe, 406 
Allen, Grant, 123 
Ames, Winthrop, 155, 156, 157, 

294, 308, 349 
Anderson, Percy, 43 
Andreyef, Leonid, 400 
Androcles and the Lion, 188-194, 

234, 240, 392 
Angelico, Fra, 319 
Anglin, Margaret, 217, 221, 222, 

223, 224, 225, 226, 229, 231, 233, 

258, 307, 3i7, 33o, 390 
Anna Karenina, 105 
Another Interior, 399 
Anson, A. E., 74 
Anspacher, Louis K., 116, 117, 

118, 120, 121, 122, 353 
Antony and Cleopatra, 223, 227, 

230 
April, 400 

Archer, William, 295 
Aristotle, 393 



Arliss, George, 179, 185, 213, 277, 

290, 383, 384, 39i 
Arms and the Man, 306 
Arnold, Matthew, 197 
Arnold, Prof., 411 
Art and the Actor, 379 
As a Man Thinks, 25-33, 301, 

305, 340 
Ashe, Oscar, 34 
Astor Theater, The, 90, 123 
As You Like It, 223, 225, 227, 232 
Aug, Edna, 88 
Augier, Emile, 311 
Austen, Jane, 141, 142, 144 
Antick, The, 403 



Bacon, Francis, 405 

Baker, George P., no, 308, 404 

Bandbox Theater, 396, 401, 407, 

409, 412 
Bataille, Henry, 262 
Barker, Granville, 188, 189, 191, 

192, 193, 234, 235, 238, 240, 392 
Barrie, Sir James, 142, 172, 174, 

175, 274, 275, 305, 306, 313, 332, 

333, 389, 393 
Barrymore, Ethel, 12, 165, 197, 

258, 294, 332, 391 
Barrymore, John, 205 
Barrymore, Maurice, 277 
I Beach, Lewis, 404, 410 



415 



416 



INDEX 



Bear, The, 401 

Becky Sharp, 277, 279, 284 

Beecher, Janet, 258 

Beethoven, 394 

Belasco, David, 17, 18, 21, 22, 59, 

61, 62, 64, 165, 166, 170, 171, 

179, 180, 181, 184, 185, 186, 284, 

298, 319, 345. 359, 360 
Belasco Theater, 17, 59, 165, 179, 

361 
Bennett, Arnold, 44, 45, 158 
Bennett, Richard, 259 
Benrimo, 50 

Benson Company, 217, 402 
Bergson, Henri, 75 
Bernhardt, Sarah, 389 
Bernstein, Henry, 16, 165, 168 
Blind, Eric, 223 
Blossom, Henry W., 251 
Bolton, Guy, 405 
Boomerang, The, 361 
Booth, Edwin, 213, 219, 272, 273, 

380, 387. 394 
Booth Theater, 355 
Boris Godunov, 318 
Boss, The, 9 
Boston Museum Stock Company, 

376 
Boston Opera House, 308, 317 
Boucicault, Dion, 97 
Bought and Paid For, 99 
Bracco, Roberto, 403 
Brieux, Eugene, 273, 295, 365 
Broadway Jones, 44-49, 215 
Broun, Hayward, 196, 197 
Browning, Robert, 322 
Bunty Pulls the Strings, 296 
Burke, Billie, 165, 180, 379, 383, 

39i 
Busy Izzy, 88 



Cahill, Marie, 346 
Caine, Hall, 197 
Caldara, Orme, 112, 114 
Calvert, Louis, 242, 243 
Campbell, Mrs. Patrick, 181, 283 
Candler Theater, 202, 203 
Captain Jinks of the Horse Ma- 
rines, 67 
Carlton, Tom, 405 
Caruso, Enrico, 6 
Case of Becky, The, 59, 65 
Castle Square Theater, no 
Cato, 310 

Cellini, Benvenuto, 213 
Century Theater, 241 
Chambers, Robert W., 196 
Cherry, Charles, 254, 259 
Cherry Garden, The, 408, 409 
Chicago Players, The, 300 
Chicago Theater Society, The, 298 
Children, 406 
Chorus Lady, The, 82, 83 
Clapp, Henry Austin, 257 
Climbers, The, 352, 391 
Clod, The, 404 

Cohan, George M., 45, 46, 47, 49, 
90, 92, 94i 95, 96, 97, loo, 117, 
124, 125, 197, 215, 251, 261, 275, 

33i, 348, 355 
Cohan and Harris, 130 
College Widow, The, 151 
Collier, Constance, 216 
Columbia Dramatic Museum, 379 
Comedy Theater, 407 
Common Clay, no, 115 
Concert, The, 117, 180, 298, 299 
Conroy, Frank, 402 
Coquelin, Benoit-Constant, 379 
Corbin, John, 241, 243, 244 
Cordoba, Pedro de, 215, 216 



INDEX 



417 



Corey, Williams, and Riter, 202 
Cossart, Ernest, 240 
Courtenay, William, 66, 72, 73 
Cowl, Jane, in, 114 
Craig, Gordon, 190, 230, 307, 315, 

316, 318, 320, 323 
Craig, John, no, 226 
Craven, Frank, 99, 100, 103 
Crews, Laura Hope, 180, 183, 184, 

187 
Criterion Theater, 241 
Crosman, Henrietta, 258 
Cyrano de Bergerac, 222 

Dailey, Pete, 338 

Daly, Augustin, 243, 311 

Daly's Theater, 12 

Darling of the Gods, The, 284 

Darwin, 124 

Decorating Clementine, 262 

De Forest, Marian, 136 

Deland, Margaret, 314 

Delsarte, 7 

Deslys, Gaby, 77, 78, 79, 80 

Devil, The, 179, 285 

Dickens, Charles, 144, 310, 311, 

376 
Disraeli, 288 

Disraeli, Benjamin, 287, 288, 289 
Ditrichstein, Leo, 128, 131, 132, 

179, 180, 181, 185 
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, 59, 62 
Doll's House, A, 304 
Don Giovanni, 130, 133, 243 
Dorrian, Cecil, 406 
Drama League of America, The, 

205, 314, 330 
Drama Society, The, 242 
Dressier, Marie, 350 
Dryden, John, 310 



Duke of York's Theater (Lon- 
don), 202 
Dumas, Alexandre, fils, 311 
Duncan, Isadora, 7 
Duse, Eleanora, 279 
Dwyer, Phil, 192 

Earl of Pawtucket, The, 98 

Earth, The, 68 

Easiest Way, The, 117, 199, 269, 

273. 275, 314, 320, 352 
Eaton, Walter Prichard, 355 
Electra, 222 
Eliot, George, 311 
Eliot, Samuel, Jr., 397, 412 
Elliott, Maxine, 258 
Ellis, Melville, 78, 79 
Eltinge Theater, 104 
Emerson, R. W., 409 
Empire Theater, 172, 312, 389 
Empire Theater Stock Company, 

221, 222 
Engaged, 175 
Eric, Fred, 42 
Erlanger, Abe, 88 
Erstwhile Susan, 134, 318 
Eugenically Speaking, 399, 401 
Euripides, 393 
Evangelist, The, 91 
Everett, Edward, 257 
Eyes of the Heart, The, 284 

Fairbanks, Douglas, 85, 88 
Faith Healer, The, 90, 91 
Fanny's First Play, 357 
Farrar, Geraldine, 68 
Faversham, William, 211, 212, 

214, 215, 217, 221, 308 
Fell, Marian, 407 
Fenwick, Irene, 108 



4i8 



INDEX 



Ferber, Edna, 355 

Ferguson, Elsie, 12, 165, 197, 384 

Feuillet, Octave, 400 

Fielding, Henry, 310 

Fire and Water, 403 

First Lady of the Land, The, 12 

Fiske, Harrison Grey, 34, 179 

Fiske, Mrs. Minnie Maddern, 67, 
72, 121, 134, 136, 137, 138, 185, 
258, 277, 279, 281, 284, 285, 351, 

354, 363. 385. 386, 387 
Fitch, Clyde, 67, 68, 351, 352, 353, 

355 
Florence, W. J., 250 
Follies, The Ziegfeld, 109 
Forbes, James, 82, 83, 251 
Forbes-Robertson, Sir Johnston, 

90, 216, 217, 218, 219, 380, 388, 

394 
Forbidden Fruit, 400 
Forrest, Edwin, 272, 273 
Forrest, Sam, 130 
Fourth Estate, The, 13 
France, Anatole, 75, 188, 193 
Frohman, Charles, 88 
Fulton Theater, 50 
Furst, William, 58 

Gaiety Theater, 134 

Gaiety Theater (Manchester), 

148, 154, 3i3 
Galsworthy, John, 158, 162, 163, 
164, 196, 202, 203, 204, 205, 206, 
207, 271, 293, 295, 296, 305, 313, 

314, 392, 393 
Garden of Allah, The, 35 
Garden Theater, 195, 197 
Garrick, David, 219, 310, 349, 356 
Gaythorne, Pamela, 157, 158, 159 
George, Grace, 185, 197, 258, 363 



George M. Cohan Theater, 44 
Gerstenberg, Alice, 403 
Get-Rich-Quick Wallingford, 9, 

45, 251 
Ghosts, 306 
Giddens, George, 146 
Gilbert, Sir W. S., 175, 327 
Gillette, William, 100, 379, 383 
Gillmore, Frank, 259 
Girl with the Green Eyes, The, 

"7, 353 
Glass, Montague, 355 
Glendenning, Ernest, 109 
Goldsmith, Oliver, 310, 371 
Good Little Devil, A, 319 
Goodman, Edward, 398, 399, 401 
Gorky, Maxim, 105, 306 
Gottschalk, Ferdinand, 185, 391 
Grand-Army Man The, 151 
Great Divide, The, 222, 330 
Great Lover, The, 128, 133 
Greek Theater, University of Cal- 
ifornia, 222 
Green Stockings, 222 
Gregory, Lady Augusta, 371 

Hackett, James K., 241 

Hamlet, 217, 230, 31,8, 320, 368 

Hampden, Walter, 4, 243^ 259 

Hardy, Thomas, 385 

Harvest Moon, The, 25, 27, 259 

Hassell, George, 243 

Hatton, Frederic and Fanny, 128 

Hauptmann, Gerhart, 195, 199, 

3i3 
Hazelton, George C, 50 
Hedda Gabler, 105, 118, 284 
Hedman, Martha, 171 
Heggie, O. P., 193, 392 
Helena's Husbands, 402 



INDEX 



419 



Hennequin, Alfred, 249 
Her Husband's Wife, 330 
Heme, Crystal, 32, 259 
Heme, James A., 150, 352 
High Road, The, 67, 68, 73 
Hindle Wakes, 76, 148-154 
Hit-the-Trail Holliday, 123-127 
Hobson's Choice, 136 
Homer, 67 

Honeymoon Express, The, 75-81 
Honorable Lover, The, 403 
Horniman, Miss A. E. F., 148, 

151, 3i3 

Houghton, Stanley, 148 
Hudson Theater, The, 82, 225 
Huneker, James, 351 
Hypocrites, The, 383, 384 

Ibsen, Henrik, 285, 292, 304, 306, 
311, 320, 339, 352 

Illington, Margaret, 12, 15, 16 

Illusion of the First Time in Act- 
ing, The, 379, 383^ 

Importance of Being Earnest, 
The, 259 

Interior, 399, 401, 403 

Irish Players, The, 149, 296, 298, 
411 

Irving, Sir Henry, 228 

Irving, Isabel, 258 

Irwin, May, 135 

It Pays to Advertise, 349 

Ives, Charlotte, 32 

James, William, 18, 21, 24, 409 

Johnson, Owen, 127 

Jolson, Al, 79, 81 

Jones, Henry Arthur, 91, 352, 383 

Jones, Robert E., 193 

Joseph and His Brethren, 77 



Julius Caesar, 221 
Justice, 202-207, 271, 392 

Kane, Gail, 97 

Keane, Doris, 66, 71, 72, 381, 383, 

384 
Kenyon, Charles, 12, 15 
Kidder, Katheryn, 117 
Kindling, 12-16 
King Henry VIII, 241 
Kinkead, Cleves, no, 114 
Kipling, Rudyard, 14, 48, no, 142 
Kismet, 34-43 
Klaw and Erlanger, 34 
Kneisels, The, 394 
Knickerbocker Theater, 34 
Knoblauch, Edward, 34, 35, 36 
Koch, Frederick Henry, 411 
Kotzebue, 311 
Kreisler, Fritz, 138, 393 



Lady Windemere's Fan, 330 

Lamb, Charles, 76 

Land of Promise, The, 330 

Lawford, Ernest, 391 

Lawrence, Basil, 399 

Leah Kleschna, 284, 285 

Legend of Leonora, The, 172-178, 

389 
Leslie, Marguerite, 171 
Liberty Hall, 312 
Licensed, 399 

Little Country Theater, 411 
Little Mary, 172 
Little Minister, The, 389 
Little Theater, The, 155, 164, 

294, 308, 349 
Little Theater (Indianapolis), 

404, 412 



4-20 



INDEX 



Locke, Edward, 59 
Locke, William J., 286 
Loftus, Cecilia, 216 
Longacre Theater, 128 
Lord Dundreary, 250 
Lopoukowa, Lydia, 402 
Love of One's Neighbor, 400 
Lyric Theater, 211 



McCarthy, Lillah, 192 
McKinnel, Norman, 149 
McLean, R. D., 215 
McRae, Bruce, 254, 259 
Macbeth, 348, 367, 368 
MacKaye, Percy, 403 
Madame X, 174 
Maeterlinck, Maurice, 399, 400, 

401, 407 
Magical City, The, 406 
Major Barbara, 393 
Man From Home, The, 250, 292, 

298 
Man of the Hour, The, 9 
Man Who Married a Dumb Wife, 

The, 188, 193 
Mansfield, Richard, 62, 132, 184, 

222, 234, 287 
Mantell, Robert, 217 
Marlowe, Julia, 224, 258, 351, 

376, 390 
Martin, Helen, 136 
Masefield, John, 313 
Mason, John, 25, 26, 31, 32, 108, 

j 12, 114 
Master Pierre Patelin, 193, 406 
Matthews, A. E., 259 
Matthison, Edith Wynne, 4, 5, 6, 7, 

157 
Maugham, Somerset, 165, 330 



Maxine Elliott Theater, 66, 148, 

156 
May, Olive, 88 

Megrue, Roi Cooper, 197, 355 
Melba, Nellie, 135, 138, 388 
Mendelssohn, 239 
Merchant of Venice, The, 368 
Merry Wives of Windsor, The, 

241 
Metropolitan Opera House, 129, 

318 
Meyer, Josephine, 404 
Mid-Channel, 273, 306 
Midsummer Night's Dream, A, 

234-240, 374 
Mignon, 68 

Mikado, The, 175, 371 
Miller, Henry, 90, 259, 260 
Miracle Man, The, 90-97 
Miracle of St. Anthony, The, 400 
Moeller, Philip, 400, 402, 410 
Moliere, 310 

Molnar, Ferenc, 179, 182 
Moloch, 123 
Moody, William Vaughn, 90, 330, 

355 
Moon Down, 400 
Morosco, Oliver, 116 
Morton, Madison, 311 
Mrs. Bumpstead-Leigh, 136 
Mrs. Dane's Defense, 222 
Mrs. Warren's Profession, 269 
Muck, Karl, 393 
Music Master, The, 17 
Musset, Alfred de, 403 
My Lady's Honor, 400 

Nash, George, 97, 259 
Nazimova, Alia, 12, 390, 391 
New Amsterdam Theater, 241 



INDEX 



421 



New Theater, The, 3, 4, 5, 11, 
196, 216, 241, 258, 259, 264, 294, 
298, 299, 373 

Nicholson, Meredith, 150, 151 

Night of Snow, 403 

Night Refuge The, 105, 306 

Norman, Christine, 122 

North, Wilfrid, 157 

Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith, The, 
283 

Officer 666, 305 
O'Neill, James, 222 
Ordynski, Richard, 241, 242 
Osborne, Thomas Mott, 205 
Othello, 211-216, 221, 273 
Our American Cousin, 250 
Our Mrs. McChesney, 391 
Overtones, 403 

Packard, Frank L., 90 

Paderewski, Ignace, 393 

Page, Curtis Hidden, 193 

Pagliacci, I., 6 

Pair of Silk Stockings, A, 349 

Parker, Dorothy, 146 

Parker, Louis N., 141, 142, 143, 

145, 287, 288 
Passers-by, 158 
Pater, Walter, 75, 76 
Patience, 371 
Patrician, The, 314 
Patterson, Joseph Medill, 13 
Payne, B. Iden, 202 
Peabody, Josephine Preston, 3, 6, 7 
Pemberton, Murdock, 400 
Penguin Island, 193 
Perugini, George, 53 
Peter Pan, 77, 172, 274, 376, 389, 

393 



Phantom Rival, The, 179-187 
Pigeon, The, 155-164, 203, 204, 

294, 295, 305 
Pinafore, 76 
Pinero, Sir Arthur, 83, 273, 274, 

275, 298, 306 
Piper, The, 3-1 1 
Piatt, George Foster, 74, 157 
Piatt, Livingston, 223, 226, 227, 

230, 232, 233, 317, 318, 406 
Playmaking, 295 
Polini, Emilie, 154 
Pomander Walk, 141-147 
Popularity, 45 
Porter, Gene Stratton, 196 
Potash and Perlmutter, 117 
Power, Tyrone, 277 
Prince, Dr. Morton, 59 
Princesse Lointaine, La, 337 
Pygmalion, 181 

Quality Street, 141, 142, 145 
Quo Vadis, 337 

Racine, 310 

Rainbow, The, 330 

Raymond, John T., 250 

Red Cloak, The, 405 

Reed, John, 400 

Reflections on Acting, 379 

Rehan, Ada, 223, 224 

Reicher, Emanuel, 195 

Reicher, Frank, 157, 159, 160, 171 

Reinhardt, Max, 193, 235, 241, 307, 

316, 318, 320 
Relph, George, 56 
Reminiscences of a Dramatic 

Critic, 257 
Republic Theater, no 
Return from Jerusalem, The, 170 



4.22 



INDEX 



Return of Peter Grimm, The, 17- 

24, 59. 64 
Revelle, Hamilton, 42 
Riders to the Sea, 296, 297, 298 
Rise of Silas Lapham, The, 311 
Road-House in Arden, The, 405 
Robertson, Tom, 311 
Rolfe, W. J., 367 
Romance, 66-74, 117, 381, 383, 385 
Romeo and Juliet, 76, 211, 221 
Roosevelt, Theodore, 382 
Rosmersholm, 284, 320 
Rostand, Edmond, 4, 337 
Russian Ballet, 402 
Rutherford and Son, 149 

Salvation Nell, 67 

Sampson, William, 88 

Sardou, Victorien, 200, 312, 313 

Savage, Henry W., 75, 80 

Saviors, 400 

Scandal, The, 262 

Schnitzler, Arthur, 403 

School for Scandal, The, 249, 306 

Schumann, Robert, 394 

Scott, Sir Walter, 310, 311 

Scribe, Eugene, 200 

Seagull, The, 407, 408, 409 

Second Mrs. Tanqueray, The, 283, 

35i 

Secret, The, 1 65-171 

Selwyn, Edgar, 251 

Sembrich, Marcella, 393, 394 

Septimus, 286 

Serrano, Vincent, 32 

Servant in the House, The, 5 

Seven Days, 305 

Shakespeare, 56, 67, 91, 124, 206, 
214, 217, 218, 219, 221, 227, 233, 
234» 235, 237, 241, 242, 244, 245, 



272, 275, 304, 307, 310, 318, 365, 
366, 367, 369, 370, 371, 372, 373, 

375, 377, 389, 394, 4©5 
Shaw, Arthur, 53 
Shaw, Bernard, 188, 189, 192, 225, 

273, 306, 313, 338, 365, 371, 393 
Shaw, Mary, 53, 306 
She Stoops to Conquer, 76, 310 
Sheldon, Edward, 66, 67, 68, 72, 

73, 104, 105, 107, 108, 109 
Shenandoah, 222 
Shepherd in the Distance, The, 

400, 401 
Sheridan, R. B., 249, 371 
Shore Acres, 150, 352 
Show Shop, The, 82-89 
Sidney, George, 88 
Silver Box, The, 203, 204, 294 
Sitgreaves, Beverly, 133 
Skinner, Otis, 4, 35, 42, 259 
Slice of Life, A, 332 
Smith, H. Reeves, 122 
Song of Songs, The, 104-109 
Sophocles, 222, 309 
Sothern, E. A., 250 
Sothern, E. H., 228, 259, 355, 356 
Sparks, Ned, 88 
Starr, Frances, 62, 165, 170 
Stevens, Edwin, 179 
Stevens, Emily, 121, 122, 354 
Stokes, Rose Pastor, 400 
Stone, Fred, 7 
Strange Woman, The, 165 
Strife, 158, 196, 197, 203, 204, 294, 

295, 314 
Such a Little Queen, 259 
Sudermann, Hermann, 104, 105, 

106, 313 
Sumurun, 307, 318 
Sutro, Alfred, 355 



INDEX 



423 



Swartz, Jean, 79 

Synge, J. M., 149, 296, 313 

Talma, 379, 380 

Taming of the Shrew, The, 223, 

225, 227, 390 
Taylor, Laurette, 108 
Taylor, Tom, 240 
Tchekov, Anton, 401, 407, 408, 409 
Tempest, The, 241-245 
Tenor, The, 405 

Tess of the d'Urbervilles, 385, 386 
Thackeray, W. M., 275, 285, 310, 

3" 

Thais, 193 

Thief, The, 15, 168 

Thirty-Ninth Street Theater, 25, 

26, 98, 116 
Thomas, Augustus, 25, 26, 27, 28, 

3°i 3 it 32, 33, 7*y 98, 300, 301, 

305, 340 
Thomas, A. E., 330 
Three Daughters of M. Dupont, 

The, 272 
Thunderbolt, The, 274, 298, 299, 

300 
Too Many Cooks, 98-103 
Toy Theater (Boston), 226 
Traveling Salesman, The, 82 
Tree, Sir Herbert, 228, 241, 242 
Trelawney of the "Wells," 83, 274 
Trial by Jury, 175 
Truth, The, 117, 353, 391 
Twain, Mark, 250 
Twelfth Night, 223, 224, 227, 229, 

317 

Twelve-Pound Look, The, 274 
Twice-Born Men, 95 
Two Blind Beggars and One Less 
Blind, 400 



Two Virtues, The, 355 
Typhoon, The, 301, 302 

Unchastened Woman, The, 116-. 

122, 353 
Under the Gas Lamps, 311 
Urban, Josef, 241, 317, 406 

Valentine, Sidney, 157-159 
Virginius, 273 

Walkley, A. B., 141 
Wallack, Lester, 255, 256 
Wallack's Theater, 141, 146, 188, 

189, 234 
Walter, Eugene, 199, 275, 314, 355 
Warfield, David, 17, 18, 23, 151 
Warren, William, 257, 258 
Washington Square Players, 396— 

413 
'Way Down East, 150 
Wayburn, Ned, 78 
Weavers, The, 195-201 
Weber and Fields, 239, 338 
Wedekind, Frank, 405 
Wendell, Barrett, 326 
Wendell, Jacob, 4 
What Every Woman Knows, 389 
Where Ignorance is Bliss, 179 
Whims, 403 
White, Hervey, 403 
Whitside, Walker, 301 
Whytal, Russ, 157, 158 
Wilde, Oscar, 330 
Wilkinson, Norman, 235 
Williams, John D., 202 
Williams, Malcolm, 186, 187 
Winter Garden, The, 75, 77, 355 
Winter, William, 352, 353, 358, 

390 



424 



INDEX 



Winter's Tale, A, 273, 373 

Wise, Thomas, A., 109 

Witching Hour, The, 25, 26, 73, 

301 
Wizard of Oz, The, 255 
Woods, A. H., no, 114, 355 
Worthing, Frank, 180, 185, 254, 

259, 362, 363 



Wright, Haidee, 355 
Wyndham, Olive, 258 
Wyndham, Sir Charles, 254 

Yapp, Cecil, 243 
Yeats, W. B., 149 
Yellow Jacket, The, 50-58 
You Never Can Tell, 371 



A SELECTED LIST 

OF 

DRAMATIC 
LITERATURE 





PUBLISHED BY 
STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 

CINCINNATI 



STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 



Four Plays of the Free Theater 

Francois de Curel's The Fossils 

Jean Jullien's The Se?'enade 

Georges de Porto-Riche's 

Francoise' Luck 

Georges Ancey's The Dupe 

Translated <wjth an introduction on Antoine and Theatre 
Libre by BARRETT H. CLARK. Preface by BRIEUX, of the 
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DRAMATIC LITERATURE 



Contemporary French Dramatists 

By BARRETT H. CLARK 

In "Contemporary Trench Dramatists" Mr. Barrett H. 
Clark, author of "The Continental Drama of Today" 
"The British and American Drama of Today," translator 
of "Four Plays of the Free Theater," and of various plays 
of Donnay, Hervieu, Lemaitre, Sardou, Lavedan, etc., has 
contributed the first collection of studies on the modern 
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Rostand, Bataille, Bernstein, Capus, Flers, and Caillavet. 
The book contains numerous quotations from the chief rep- 
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be found anywhere. 

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Independent, New York: 

"Almost indispensable to the student of the theater." 

Boston Transcript: 

" Mr. Clark's method of analyzing the works of the 
Playwrights selected is simple and helpful. * * * As 
a manual for reference or story, 'Contemporary French 
Dramatists,' with its added bibliographical material, 
will serve well its purpose." 

Uniform with FOUR PLAYS. Handsomely bound. 

Cloth Net, $1.50 

Y^ Maroon Turkey Morocco Net, $5.00 



DRAMATIC LITERATURE 



The Antigone of Sophocles 

By PROF. JOSEPH EDWARD HARRY 



An acting version of this most perfect of all dramas. 
A scholarly ivork in readable English. Especiallly 
adaptable for Colleges, Dramatic Societies, etc. 



Post Express, Rochester: 

"He has done his work well." "Professor Harry 
has translated with a virile force that is almost Shake- 
spearean." "The difficult task of rendering the 
choruses into English lyrical verse has been very cred- 
itably accomplished." 

Argonaut, San Francisco: 

"Professor Harry is a competent translator not 
only because of his classical knowledge, but also be- 
cause of a certain enthusiastic sympathy that shows 
itself in an unfailing choice of words and expression." 

North American, Philadelphia: 

"Professor Harry, teacher of Greek in the Cincin- 
nati University, has written a new metrical transla- 
tion of the Antigone of Sophocles. The translation 
is of fine dramatic quality." 

Oregonian, Portland: 

"A splendidly executed translation of the celebrated 
Greek tragedy." 



Herald, Boston: 

"Scholars will not need to be urged to read this 
noteworthy piece of literary work, and we hope that 
many others who have no special scholarly interest 
will be led to its perusal." 

Svo. cloth. Dignified binding Net, $1.00 



STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 



46 



European Dramatists 99 



By ARCHIBALD HENDERSON 

Author of "George Bernard Shaw: His Life and Works." 
In the present work the famous dramatic critic and 

biographer of Shaw has considered six representative 

dramatists outside of the United States, some living, some 

dead — Strindberg, Ibsen, Maeterlinck, Wilde, Shaw and 

Barker. 

Velma Swanston Howard says: 

"Prof. Henderson's appraisal of Strindberg is cer- 
tainly the fairest, kindest and most impersonal that 
I have yet seen. The author has that rare combina- 
tion of intellectual power and spiritual insight which 
casts a clear, strong light upon all subjects under his 
treatment." 

Baltimore Evening Sun: 

"Prof. Henderson's criticism is not only notable for 
its understanding and good sense, but also for the 
extraordinary range and accuracy of its information." 

Jeanette L. Gilder, in the Chicago Tribune: 

"Henderson is a writer who throws new light on 
old subjects." 

Chicago Record Herald: 

"His essays in interpretation are welcome. Mr. 
Henderson has a catholic spirit and writes without 
parochial prejudice — a thing deplorably rare among 
American critics of the present day. * * * One finds 
that one agrees with Mr. Henderson's main conten- 
tions and is eager to break a lance with him about 
minor points, which is only a way of saying that he is 
stimulating, that he strikes sparks. He knows his age 
thoroughly and lives in it with eager sympathy and 
understanding." 

Providence Journal: 

"Henderson has done his work, within its obvious 
limitations, in an exceedingly competent manner. He 
has \he-Jtiappy^ia.elUty>of making his biographical 
treatment interesting, combining the personal facts and 
a fairly clear and entertaining portrait of the indi- 
vidual with intelligent critical comment on his artistic 
work." 

Photogravure frontispiece, handsomely printed and 
bound, large i2mo Net, $1.50 



DRAMATIC LITERATURE 



At Last 

You May Understand 

G. B. S. 

Perhaps once in a generation a figure of commanding 
greatness appears, one through whose life the history of 
his time may be read. There is but one such man to- 
day. 

George Bernard Shaw 

HIS LIFE AND WORKS 

A CRITICAL BIOGRAPHY (Authorized) 

By 
ARCHIBALD HENDERSON, M.A.Ph.D. 

Is virtually the story of the social, economic and 
aesthetic life of the last twenty-five years. It is a sym- 
pathetic, yet independent interpretation of the most po- 
tent individual force in society. Cultivated America will 
find here the key to all that is baffling and elusive in 
Shaw ; it is a cinematographic picture of his mind with a 
background disclosing all the formative influences that 
combined to produce this universal genius. 

The press of the world has united in its praise; let us 
send you some of the comments. It is a large demy 8vo 
volume cloth, gilt top, 628 pages, with 35 full page illus- 
trations in color, photogravure and halftone and numerous 
pictures in the text. 

$5.00 Net 



STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 



A Few Critical Reviews of 

George Bernard Shaw 

His Life and Works 
A Critical Biography (Authorized) 
By ARCHIBALD HENDERSON, M.A., Ph.D. 
The Dial: 

"In over five hundred pages, with an energy and 
carefulness and sympathy which deserve high com- 
mendation, Dr. Henderson has presented his subject 
from all conceivable angles." 
The Bookman: 

"A more entertaining narrative, whether in biog- 
raphy or fiction, has not appeared in recent years." 
The Independent: 

"Whatever George Bernard Shaw may think of his 
Biography the rest of the world will probably agree 
that Dr, Henderson has done a good job." 
Boston Transcript: 

"There is no exaggeration in saying it is one of the 
most entertaining biographies of these opening years 
of the Twentieth Century." 
Bernard Shaw: 

"You are a genius, because you are somehow sus- 
ceptible to the really significant and differentiating 
traits and utterances of your subject." 
Maurice Maeterlinck: 

"You have written one of the most sagacious, most 
acute and most penetrating essays in the whole mod- 
ern moment." 
Edwin Markham: 

"He stands to-day as the chief literary critic of 
the South, and in the very forefront of the critics of 
the nation." 
William Lyon Phelps: 

"Your critical biography of Shaw is a really great 
work." 
Richard Burton: 

"In over five hundred pages, with an energy and 
carefulness and sympathy which deserves high com- 
mendation, Dr. Henderson has presented his subject 
from all conceivable angles. * * * Intensely interest- 
ing * * * sound and brilliant, full of keen insight and 
happy turns of statement. * * * This service Professor 
Henderson's book does perform; and I incline to call it 
a great one." 



DRAMATIC LITERATURE 



Short Plays 



By MARY MAC MILLAN 
To fill a long-felt want. All have been successfully 

presented. Suitable for Women's Clubs, Girls' Schools, 

etc. While elaborate enough for big presentation, they 

may be given very simply. 

Review of Reviews: 

"Mary MacMillan offers 'Short Plays,' a collec- 
tion of pleasant one to three-act plays for women's 
clubs, girls' schools, and home parlor production. 
Some are pure comedies, others gentle satires on 
women's faults and foibles. 'The Futurists,' a skit 
on a woman's club in the year 1882, is highly amus- 
ing. 'Entr' Act' is a charming trifle that brings two 
quarreling lovers together through a ridiculous pri- 
vate theatrical. 'The Ring' carries us gracefully back 
to the days of Shakespeare; and 'The Shadowed Star,' 
the best of the collection, is a Christmas Eve tragedy. 
The Star is shadowed by our thoughtless inhumanity 
to those who serve us and our forgetfulness of the 
needy. The Old Woman, gone daft, who babbles in 
a kind of mongrel Kiltartan, of the Shepherds, the 
Blessed Babe, of the Fairies, rowan berries, roses and 
dancing, while her daughter dies on Christmas Eve, is 
a splendid characterization." 

Boston Transcript: 

"Those who consigned the writer of these plays to 
solitude and prison fare evidently knew that 'needs 
must' is a sharp stimulus to high powers. If we find 
humor, gay or rich, if we find brilliant wit; if we 
find constructive ability joined with dialogue which 
moves like an arrow; if we find delicate and keen 
characterization, with a touch of genius in the choice 
of names; if we find poetic power which moves on 
easy wing — the gentle jailers of the writer are justi- 
fied, and the gentle reader thanks their severity." 

Salt Lake Tribune: 

"The Plays are ten in number, all of goodly length. 
We prophesy great things for this gifted dramatist." 

Bookseller, News Dealer 6t Stationer: 

"The dialogue is permeated with graceful satire, 
snatches of wit, picturesque phraseology, and tender, 
often exquisite, expressions of sentiment." 

Handsomely Bound. l2mo. Cloth Net, $1.2$ 



STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 



The Gift 

A Poetic Drama 
By MARGARET DOUGLAS ROGERS 

A dramatic poem in two acts, treating in altogether 
new fashion the world old story of Pandora, the first 
woman. 
New Haven Times Leader: 

"Well written and attractive." 
Evangelical Messenger: 

"A very beautifully written portrayal of the old 
story of Pandora." 
Rochester Post Dispatch: 

"There is much poetic feeling in the treatment of 
the subject." 
Grand Rapids Herald: 

"The Gift, dealing with this ever interesting 
mythological story, is a valuable addition to the dramas 
of the day." 
St. Xavler Calendar: 

"The story of Pandora is so set down as to bring 
out its stage possibilities. Told by Mrs. Rogers in 
exquisite language." 
Salt Lake Tribune: 

"The tale is charmingly wrought and has possibil- 
ities as a simple dramatic production, as well as being 
a delightful morsel of light reading." 
Cincinna ti Enquirer : 

"The love story is delightfully told and the dra- 
matic action of the play is swift and strong." 
Buffalo Express: 

"It is a delightful bit of fancy with a dramatic and 
poetic setting." 
Boston Woman* s Journal: 

"Epimetheus and Pandora and her box are charm- 
ingly presented." 
Worcester Gazette: 

"It is absolutely refreshing to find a writer willing 
to risk a venture harking back to the times of the 
Muses and the other worthies of mythological fame. 
* * * The story of Pandora's box told in verse by a 
woman. It may be said it could not have been better 
written had a representative of the one who only as- 
sisted at the opening been responsible for the play." 
Handsomely bound silk cloth Net, $1.00 



DRAMATIC LITERATURE 



Lucky Pehr 

By AUGUST STRINDBERG 

Authorized Translation by Velma Sivanston Howard. 

An allegorical drama in five acts. Compared favorably 

to Barrie's "Peter Pan" and Maeterlinck's "The Blue 

Bird." 

Rochester Post Express: 

Strindberg has written many plays which might be 
described as realistic nightmares. But this remark does 
not apply to "Lucky Pehr." * * * This drama is one 
of the most favorable specimens of Strindberg's 
genius. 

New York World: 

"Pehr" is lucky because, having tested all things, 
he finds that only love and duty are true. 

New York Times: 

"Lucky Pehr" clothes cynicism in real entertain- 
ment instead of in gloom. And it has its surprises. 
Can this be August Strindberg, who ends his drama 
so sweetly on the note of the woman-soul, leading up- 
ward and on? 

Worcester Gazette: 

From a city of Ohio comes this product of Swedish 
fancy in most attractive attire, attesting that the pos- 
sibilities of dramatic art have not entirely ceased in 
this age of vaudeville and moving pictures. A great 
sermon in altruism is preached in these pages, which 
we would that millions might see and hear. To those 
who think or would like to think, "Lucky Pehr" will 
prove a most readable book. * * * An allegory, it is 
true, but so are ^Esop's Fables, the Parables of the 
Scriptures and many others of the most effective les- 
sons ever given. 

Boston Globe: 

A popular drama. * * * There is no doubt about 
the book being a delightful companion in the library. 
In charm of fancy and grace of imagery the story may 
not be unfairly classed with "The Blue Bird" and 
"Peter Pan." 
Photogravure frontispiece of Strindberg etched by 

Zorn. Also, a reproduction of Velma Sivanston Howard's 

authorization. 

Handsomely bound. Gilt top Net, $1.50 



STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 



Easter 



(A Play in Three Acts) 
AND STORIES BY AUGUST STRINDBERG 

Authorized translation by Velma Swanston Howard. 
In this work the author reveals a broad tolerance, a rare 
poetic tenderness augmented by an almost divine under- 
standing of human frailties as marking certain natural 
stages in evolution of the soul. 
Louisville Courier* Journal: 

Here is a major key of cheerfulness and idealism 
— a relief to a reader who has passed through some 
of the author's morbid pages. * * * Some critics find 
in this play (Easter) less of the thrust of a distinctive 
art than is found in the author's more lugubrious 
dramas. There is indeed less sting in it. Neverthe- 
less it has a nobler tone. It more ably fulfills the 
purpose of good drama — the chastening of the spec- 
tators' hearts through their participation in the suf- 
fering of the dramatic personages. There is in the 
play a mystical exaltation, a belief and trust in good 
and its power to embrace all in its beneficence, to bring 
all confusion to harmony. 
The Nation: 

Those who like the variety of symbolism which 
Maeterlinck has often employed — most notably in the 
"Bluebird" — will turn with pleasure to the short stories 
of Strindberg which Mrs. Howard has included in her 
volume. * * * They are one and all diverting on ac- 
count of the author's facility in dealing with fanciful 
details. 
Bookseller: 

"Easter" is a play of six characters illustrative of 
human frailties and the effect of the divine power 
of tolerance and charity. * * * There is a symbolism, 
a poetic quality, a spiritual insight in the author's 
work that make a direct appeal to the cultured. * * * 
The Dial: 

One play from his (Strindberg's) third, or sym- 
bolistic period stands almost alone. This is "Easter." 
There is a sweet, sane, life-giving spirit about it. 
Photogravure frontispiece of Strindberg etched by 
Zorn. Also, a reproduction of Velma Swanston Howard's 
authorization. 
Handsomely bound. Gilt top Net, $1.50 



DRAMATIC LITERATURE 



On the Seaboard 

By AUGUST STRINDBERG 

The Author's greatest psychological novel. Author- 
ized Translation by Elizabeth Clarke Westergren. 
American-Scandinavian Review: 

"The description of Swedish life and Swedish scen- 
ery makes one positively homesick for the Skargard 
and its moods. 
Worcester Evening Gazette: 

"Classes in Psychology in colleges, and Medical stu- 
dents considering Pathology would derive much infor- 
mation from the observations and reflections of the 
commissioner who holds the front of the stage whereon 
are presented sciences as new to the readers of to-day 
as were those which Frederick Bremer unfolded to the 
fathers and mothers of critics and observers in this 
first quarter of the Twentieth Century." 
Detroit Tribune: 

"Hans Land pronounced this novel to be the only 
work of art in the domain of Nietzschean morals yet 
written which is destined to endure." 
Cincinnati Times-Star: 

"It requires a book such as 'On the Seaboard' to 
show just how profound an intellect was housed in the 
frame of this great Swedish writer." 
New Haven Leader: 

"His delineations are photographical exactness with- 
out retouching, and bear always a strong reflection of 
his personality." 
Indianapolis News: 

"The story is wonderfully built and conceived and 
holds the interest tight." 
American Review of Reviews: 

"This version is characterized by the fortunate use 
of idiom, a delicacy in the choice of words, and great 
beauty in the rendering of descriptive passages, the 
translation itself often attaining the melody of poetry 
* * * You may read and re-read it, and every read- 
ing will fascinate the mind from a fresh angle." 
South Atlantic Quarterly: 

"Only a most unusual man, a genius, could have 
written this book, and it is distinctly worth reading." 
Handsomely bound, uniform with Lucky Pehr and 
Easter Net t $1.25 






STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 



The Hamlet Problem and Its Solution 

By EMERSON VENABLE 

The tragedy of Hamlet has never been adequately in- 
terpreted. Two hundred years of critical discussion has 
not sufficed to reconcile conflicting impressions regarding 
the scope of Shakespeare's design in this, the first of his 
great philosophic tragedies. We believe that all those 
students who are interested in the study of Shakespeare 
will find this volume of great value. 
The Louisville Courier-Journal: 

"Mr. Venable's Hamlet is a 'protagonist of a drama 
of triumphant moral achievement.' He rises through 
the play from an elected agent of vengeance to a 
man gravely impressed with 'an imperative sense of 
moral obligation, tragic in its depth, felt toward the 
world.' " 
E. H. Sothern: 

"Your ideas of Hamlet so entirely agree with my 
own that the book has been a real delight to me. I 
have always had exactly this feeling about the char- 
acter of Hamlet. I think you have wiped away a 
great many cobwebs, and I believe your book will 
prove to be most convincing to many people who may 
yet be a trifle in the dark." 
The Book News Monthly: 

"Mr. Venable is the latest critic to apply himself 
to the 'Hamlet' problem, and he offers a solution in 
an admirably written little book which is sure to at- 
tract readers. Undeterred by the formidable names 
of Goethe and Coleridge, Mr. Venable pronounces un- 
tenable the theories which those great authors pro- 
pounded to account for the extraordinary figure of 
the Prince of Denmark. * * * Mr. Venable looks in 
another direction for the solution of the problem. 
* * * The solution offered by the author is just the 
reverse of that proposed by Goethe. * * * From Mr. 
Venable's viewpoint the key to 'Hamlet' is found in 
the famous soliloquies, and his book is based upon 
a close study of those utterances which bring us with- 
in the portals of the soul of the real Hamlet. The 
reader with an open mind will find in Mr. Venable a 
writer whose breadth of view and searching thought 
gives weight to this competent study of the most inter- 
esting of Shakespearean problems." 
l6mo. Silk cloth Net, $1.00 



DRAMATIC LITERATURE 



HOW TO WRITE 

Moving Picture Plays 

By W. L. GORDON 

CONTENTS 

What is a motion picture? How are moving pictures 
produced? What is necessary to write photoplays? 
Prices paid for plays. Kind of plays to write. Kind 
of plays to avoid. Single reels, double reels, etc. Prepa- 
ration of manuscript. The plot and how to obtain it. 
Title of play. Synopsis. Cast of characters. Scenario. 
Leaders of Sub-Titles. Letters, Clippings, etc. What 
constitutes a scene. Continuity of scenes. Stage settings 
and properties. Entrance and exit of characters. Cli- 
max. Limitations of camera. Length of play. Review. 
Time required to write a play. How and where to sell 
plays. A complete sample play illustrating every point 
treated upon in the instructions. A full list of over 
twenty prominent film-producing companies wanting and 
buying plays. 

The following extracts from letters of satisfied writers, 
addressed to the author, are very convincing and be- 
speak the value of this exhaustive treatise: 

" Have been successful in placing three plays, and am 
awaiting news of two additional ones. Am certain I 
would never have had that much success if I had not fol- 
lowed your instructions." 



" Your instructions entirely satisfactory. I think that 
any one with common sense can make a very nice income 
through moving picture play-writing. My first scenario 
has been accepted, and I desire to thank you." 



11 You might be interested to know that my first scenario 
completed according to your instructions was accepted by 
the Essanay Film Co." 



" Instructions well worth the money. Sold my first 
scenario to the Edison Co." 



Handsomely bound in DeLuxe Cloth Net, $1.00 



DRAMATIC LITERATURE 



The Truth 

About The Theater 

Anonymous 

Precisely what the title indicates — facts as they 
are, plain and unmistakable without veneer of any 
sort. It goes directly to the heart of the whole 
matter. Behind the writer of it — who is one of 
the best known theatrical men in New York — are 
long years of experience. He recites what he 
knows, what he has seen, and his quiet, calm, au- 
thoritative account of conditions as they are is with- 
out adornment, excuse or exaggeration. It is in- 
tended to be helpful to those who want the facts, 
and for them it will prove of immeasurable value. 

" The Truth About the Theater," in brief, lifts 
the curtain on the American stage. It leaves no 
phase of the subject untouched. To those who are 
ambitious to serve the theater, either as players or 
as playwrights, or, again, in some managerial ca- 
pacity, the book is invaluable. To those, too, who 
would know more about the theater that they may 
come to some fair estimate of the worth of the in- 
numerable theories nowadays advanced, the book 
will again prove its value. 

Net $1.00 






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